


Lifetime

by Revelrie



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Your typical time travel fic, but with a pretty not well known pairing, plot heavy, spoilers definitely, story perspective alternating between Arthur and Charlotte
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2019-11-14 18:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18057488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revelrie/pseuds/Revelrie
Summary: In an unfortunate turn of events, Charlotte Balfour comes into the possession of Arthur Morgan's journal. With nothing but a business card and the tattered old book to guide her, she takes it upon herself to fix what had been broken, and give a second chance to a man that had long since passed.She managed to live a lifetime because of him. Now, it is her turn to give him his.





	1. Where it all ends

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all. So I've hopped into the time travel bandwagon (if there is one, idk) for quite a while now and been writing this. I've been putting off posting this here in AO3 for a while (well, maybe partially because I had to wait for the AO3 account invitation for a few days...). Hopefully this serves as a wonderful icebreaker for my first time here in AO3!
> 
> I haven't managed to write something this long in a few years ever since I got busy, so I'm hoping I still remember most of the writing techniques and stuff I've acquired all over the years back then. I'm sorry if there are a lot of mistakes and errors.
> 
> Without further ado, hope you enjoy it, despite its many flaws! I'll try to update with a new chapter at a suitable pace, depending on how busy I am with some real life responsibilities. On another note, this fic will have an alternating focus between Charlotte and Arthur at every chapter, as I wish to capture both Charlotte and Arthur's perspectives throughout the story.

It was the dead of night when she heard the gunshots from the distance. Although rare, she was no stranger to it.

Charlotte Balfour did not really think she’d end up like this, living alone like a hermit, and enjoying the rest of her days surrounded by the evergreens. But here she still was, going strong, almost decades later since she first laid a foot into the land she now calls home. Her love of her property was only further cemented with the rough news of the outside world, where stirrings of worldwide war was just above the horizon.

Of course, she never forgot the man who made it all possible. The memories of Arthur Morgan still burned deep within her, although as a bittersweet sentiment knowing he passed not long after. In his passing, a man named John Marston somewhat replaced him, making visits to her home from time to time to reminisce their early days, and of Arthur, whose mention always brings her little joy in unforgiving and grueling life.

The knock on the door did not startle her. Instead, it only piqued her curiosity. Still queasy after being woken up from her deep sleep, she peered through the window and found a lone fellow with a hand braced on his stomach. The vibrant redness around him only became visible when she regained most of her vision in her grogginess, along with a revolver in his other hand whose metallic sheen glistened in the moonlight. Her eyes wandered to his face, never once expecting to see a visitor she would have never guessed.

She lowered her rifle and swung the door wide open. They stared at each other for only a moment, before she pulled him inside, staining her hands in the crimson red that coated his body. She slammed the door shut and looked at him, cold and shaking and drenched in blood that was unknown to her if it was his or another’s. She did not bother to think, only to act, carrying him towards the bed she recently slept in, and laid him down as he groaned in agony. She ran towards her medicine cabinet and grabbed all that she could hold in her arms. She had not opened that cabinet for years, and she hoped they were still good for use. When she came rushing back to him, his breathing was already slow and faint, but still very much alive.

She had only managed to lessen the bleeding by the time another knock echoed from the front door.

“Wait here,” she whispered to him softly. His worried eyes met hers for just a moment, short enough not to linger in her mind, but still long enough to make her look away, unable to bear the sight of him. She stood up and focused her eyes on the door, where the clamors have begun.

“Pardon for the intrusion. Anyone in there?” the voice bellowed.

Her hands were soaked in his blood, and some stains had rubbed off her shoulder as well. With some quick thinking, she grabbed a thick cloth and tied it around herself to act as a large scarf, covering the blots that would have given her away. She slipped on some thick gloves, hoping to hide the redness on her hands. She closed the door behind her, and after hunching her upper body forward for a little bit, her masterful theatrics was just a voice crack away.

“W-who is there…?” She croaked weakly. “I… I have a gun!”

“Oh, pardon us ma’am,” the voice answered. “Could you please open the door?”

“I-I can’t. My grandson told me not to open the door to anyone…”

“Ma’am, it’s okay. We’re from the Bureau of Investigation. We’re here to protect you.”

She half-opened the door, only taking a slight peek into the darkness of the outside. Three men in fancy suits on the porch greeted her, with a couple of more men huddled around her yard. She couldn’t tell how many there were. With these many people in tow, and armed to the teeth to boot, there was no way else out. She had to make sure they go away.

“Oh…! Hello. That’s very kind of you. I-I heard the shots. They really gave me a scare.”

“I apologize for the disturbance, ma’am. We’ve been tracking down a murderer you see. We’ve shot him up real good, but he ran along this way and lost sight of him. “

“Oh my, that is… indeed… worrisome,” she responded, deliberately cracking her voice.

“You don’t happen to have seen a young feller going around your property, have you?”

“N-not at all,” she stuttered, almost breaking her character. She cleared her throat. “Once I heard the gunshots, I tried looking out the window to see what the commotion was. I was worried some whippersnapper was gonna try to force ‘imself in, but nobody was around.” _Whippersnapper? Dear lord, what am I saying,_ she thought.

“I see, you are very lucky to have not encountered him, ma’am,” the man remarked. “We’ll continue our search for now. You don’t mind us looking around the property, just in case he’s hiding somewhere close by?’

“I don’t mind it at all,” she answered with a sly grin. “Hope that bastard’s caught soon, can’t enjoy a peaceful life around here with a murderer up and about.”

“Sure, ma’am. You be careful now.”

The man gracefully nodded at her direction and left, closing the door behind him. She peered through her window, watching the group of men wander about, searching every nook and cranny around her home. Her heart was still racing even after they left, as she had left the boy all alone in dark in anguish. When the agents had left, she ran back to her room and swung the door open, fearing the worst, but a wave of relief washed over her face upon seeing him still alive, albeit only barely.

Charlotte treated his wounds with care, hoping that the little first aid she knew was enough to give him a chance to survive. The debilitating silence between them was the least of her concerns at that very moment.  She had initially thought that he was only shot once, but a couple more holes showed up around the area when she had wiped away the blood. She noticed one more puncture on the other side of his stomach and another just inches away from his heart, but with a bandage firmly stuck to them already. The bandage itself was already dirty and old, and she didn’t dare to take a look at the mess underneath it. She replaced it with a fresh bandage, only to find herself fighting back the tears she had painfully resisted throughout the ordeal.

His worn figure slumped in the bed reminded her too much of Cal, who took his last breath with gashes and lesions all over his body, and Arthur, whose struggling form to take a simple breath mirrored that of the young man.

“I… I didn’t know where else to go,” he said, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for, Jack,” she assured him.

“How’d you…” He paused, and took another breath. “How’d you know who I was?”

“I’ve… I’ve  seen photos of you. From your father. Is he…?”

“He’s dead.” He closed his eyes, as if he was reliving the moment all over again. “Uncle, he died protecting us too. My Ma… I guess, she didn’t take it too well. She died soon after.”

Her heart sank, even though in her mind, she had already known their fate. There would not have been a reason for him to come here except for that situation alone.

“They’re good people,” she mentioned dejectedly. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

“My Pa… He wasn’t always good.”

“Just because he wasn’t good before, doesn’t mean he won’t ever be.”

She dipped a rag into a bucket of water and squeezed most of the water out, leaving it wet and slightly cold. She wiped away the sweat on the boy’s forehead, and felt a considerable heat emanating from it. She closed her eyes, trying to drive away the grimness of the sight, but his labored breathing drowned out her hopes all the same.

“So… How’d you find me, all the way out here?” she asked him, trying to steer away the mood through conversation.

“You were… just one of the many friends Pa always talked about,” Jack said, coughing. “He said that… if I ever needed trouble, I just knock on their door. You… You were the closest I could find…”

“You did more than knock, Jack. You scared me half to death.”

“Well ma’am… you seem old enough. I would have… I would have probably just cut you down a decade or so,” he joked through his strenuous breaths.

“I suppose your Pa taught you how to be a wisecrack too?” she said, chuckling, but it was as short-lived as Jack’s temporary smile.

“Yeah… and Uncle Arthur too, I guess.”

It made sense for her that Jack knew Arthur, based on the stories John told her about their life back in the gang. She knew how hard it must have been for John to recall those memories every time he visited, but that man was much of a fool to even know how to keep good company with people like her. But his stories were the only thing he knew that always kept a smile on her face, and so he kept going and going, even through his misery. She always loved piecing together the bits of tales that make up their whole story, even when it had been a couple of years since John had stopped visiting her. She shuddered at the thought that the end of his visits marked his very demise, pulling her back into the unease of the current reality.

“I know I ain’t got much time left,” Jack whimpered.

Charlotte wiped his forehead again. “Don’t say that. You’ll be okay.”

“Your face already says it all,” he said, grasping at her sagging fingers.  

With his other hand, he slowly peeled a brown satchel from him, carefully placing it on the side of the bed. It hit her that Arthur had carried something like that long before, and she wasn’t mistaken that it was, in fact, the very same one. He opened it and pulled out what looked like to her as a worn, brown book, almost ragged yet enveloped with antiquity. Papers were peeking out from within the pages, likely letters of old that hold much sentimental value. He raised the book to her. She retreated a few steps.

“I… I don’t understand.”

“I want you to have it… It’s… It’s Uncle Arthur’s journal. I know you knew him, even if just for a bit."  
  
He followed with a cough, much longer and harder than before. “It would mean a lot to me… knowing that I’ve passed it along to a good friend.”

“We… We barely even know each other.”

“But you know a lot about me, and my Pa,” he said, before wincing from a sudden jolt of pain.

She was hesitant, if anything. If she accepted it now, it would be as if she accepted that the boy’s life had become forfeit.

“Even if I die at this very instant, you’ll still have to take it all the same,” he insisted.

It was enough to bring her to take it from him, clutching at the rough edges and admiring the old leather. She cradled it close to her chest, relishing the gift with tears already filling her eyes. She was already in mourning, even when death hasn’t claimed him yet.

“That journal… I didn’t really remember much about life with the Van Der Linde gang since I was little then,” he rambled. “But that helped so much in reminding me.”

She sat down beside him, running a hand over his cheek. “Do you… Do you want to tell me all about it?”

“… Sure,” he said faintly.

If anything, she endeared his storytelling, as it helped the both of them pull away from the reality in front of them. Even though his face sometimes contorted from the torment of his injuries, he still manages to pull off a smile to make her feel at ease. The constant darkness from the outside made it hard for her tell the time, but she figured it must have been hours since his first step into the house. His voice grew weaker and weaker as time passed on, as if fading into nothingness.

With all that was said and done, Jack’s tales shifted towards his father’s. She told him how his father was forced to hunt down the very comrades he rode together with back in the gang, and his unfair and unjustly death at the hands of agent Ross. He told her that he took it upon himself to take revenge, and granted him a death he felt he so rightly deserved. But to her, Ross’ death only served as a catalyst for another.

“I still couldn’t believe Pa’s dead,” he said, sniveling. “My ma… She must have felt so much more than I did, enough to bring her to her grave.”

She cast her eyes downward, unable to see him in such a pitiful form.

“Did I… Did I do the right thing? To avenge him?”

She wanted to tell him that what he did was wrong, and that he was the bigger fool than John Marston would ever be. She achingly desired to tell him how he had doomed himself, and that he wasted away the sacrifices that not only his father, but also Arthur, made for him to live a truly normal life. Her throat was heavy when she opened her mouth to answer. No words came.

“I know… I know…” He said, as if he knew all along what she was supposed to say. He broke his gaze upon her and shifted it towards the ceiling, as if reaching out to something that wasn’t there. “I… I want to be buried somewhere peaceful… somewhere… that can touch the sky, even just for a bit.”

“Please, don’t say that.”

“I have to, or you wouldn’t know what to do.”

 He breathed a heavy sigh, perhaps his last one.

“I just hope it all ends with me.”

Charlotte held his hand. It was cold and jittery, just as the rest of him was.  

“Rest easy now. Stay strong, you’ll pull through,” she repeated, but felt as if all she was telling were lies.

He nodded silently, as if his mouth had nothing to say anymore. Charlotte watched his slow, shallow breaths, and the rise and fall of his chest. It was, to her disdain, a reflection of a nearing end to the few people she had known all her life. She thought, almost jokingly, that she should just throw away this bed, knowing its cursed history, but it seems her plans of coping through dark humor just falls short from the sight that impaled her there and then.

She maintained her hold on him, hoping the warmth of another would let him pass on with no struggle. Most of all, she wanted to assure Jack that he wasn’t going to die all alone, and that she was there for him, for better or worst.

With the other, unoccupied hand, she firmly gripped the spine of the journal that Jack had given him, reading it, cherishing each and every page full of art and wonder. It felt as if she peered directly into Arthur’s soul, dissecting each entry piece by piece. Each crisp turn of a page was a pleasure to behold. It gave her peace knowing Arthur was truly a good man, just blinded by his loyalty to a surrogate father who exploited his poor upbringing. But the same revelations also gave her misery knowing that he deserved so much more than perish alone on a mountain, betrayed by a father he gave everything for.

When the sunlight was already creeping from beyond the window panes, casting an ethereal, orange glow into the room, Jack had pushed with his final breath, and there it ended, forever.  


* * *

 

She took extra care in bundling him in a thick blanket and carrying him over her horse. It was almost like a normal routine for her. But for this moment, she felt like she was reliving her past self, struggling to carry the lifeless body of her husband Cal through the woods, and burying him in the earth that he always praised in his dreams.

Jack’s frail voice still echoed in her ears.

_I just hope it all ends with me._

Perhaps it did; that the vicious cycle they were entrapped in has finally departed along with him. Jack had told her he wanted to be buried somewhere that was peaceful. At first, she was hoping to carry him all the way to where his mother, father and Uncle lay, but Beecher’s Hope was a long way south. His body would have fallen apart by the time she got there. Instead, she sought after the location of his second request, a place where it can touch the sky, and she knew just where it was. Arthur’s grave was just somewhere nearby, close enough to journey with a body in and serene enough where Jack could be laid to rest with a dear old friend.

The trek was long a long and arduous climb up the mountains of Ambarino. In her younger days, she could go hiking on foot through the trails days on end without feeling tired.  Now, she struggles even with a horse as she shifts her weight around her saddle to keep her balance, making each step of a hoof a grueling task. Still, the difficulty of the path makes it worth the trouble, especially now that she was given an important obligation. It was somewhat odd for her, passing by a field of vibrant colors and journeying through stunning landscapes in the morning sun, and all of which did not stir her one bit. The refreshing wind brushed her face as if it was nature’s way of cheering her up, but everything was still as melancholic as it turned out to be.

She dropped down from her horse and picked a fresh set of flowers, making sure to choose the best looking ones, and placed it in her saddlebag for safekeeping. It wasn’t her first time gathering them for Arthur, but to be picking twice as many of them to place was almost heart wrenching, even for her. The last time she went to him, the grave itself was already worn down and crumbling. She made sure to replace it, rewriting the same inscriptions that were made to it by one of John’s friends.

When she arrived, she wasn’t as bewildered upon seeing that a circle of flowers to have already been placed beneath it, likely just a few days before. She didn’t know who this other, mystery person was, but Charlotte had a feeling that it was one other person who Arthur helped give meaning to his or her life, just as he did with hers. It was just a pity for her that they never came across each other after all this time. It would have been a couple of nice stories to share between them. New friends to gain were always welcome, and maybe even a companion to cope with the loss of these three wonderful men would have done so much to wipe away her tears. She wondered if she should have left a note, taking a solemn chance to come across one another. But knowing Arthur’s former affiliation, there are worse things to fear than a mountain lion or a bear, and so she never opted to.

She began digging another grave somewhere beside it, and readied another marker to place. She retrieved him from her horse and gently placed him in the hole. She scattered a couple of the flowers she’s picked above and below the hole before refilling it. The marker was simple and minimalistic, of a similar design to Arthur’s with Jack Marston’s name inscribed along with a quote that paralleled Arthur’s: _BLESSED ARE THOSE WHO ARE PERSECUTED BECAUSE OF THEIR RIGHTEOUSNESS, FOR THEIRS IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN._ She didn’t have the opportunity to ask him what to write, as if anyone else would have the gall to ask a dying man what to inscribe on their grave markers, but she knew Jack had always loved reading books and stories, along with the bible that Abigail read to him with much enthusiasm. Such an ardent passion would’ve made him a great writer, she thought. She wondered that if he had chosen a different path where he had not followed his father’s footsteps, that life would have been his future.

It was not easy for her to endure the sting of having to bury the boy beside him. She was no religious person, but she clasped her hands together and uttered a short mantra of her own, wishing the boy well in whatever the afterlife might be.

With all that is said and done, she turned towards Arthur’s grave again.

“What do you think?” she whispered into the empty space.

She imagined what Arthur would have thought, bringing the boy here beside him. Would he have welcomed her gesture as if it was a kindness, or lash out at her, treating it as a painful, lasting reminder of a sacrifice that never bore its fruit? While confusing at times, she knew Arthur was a kind enough man to find no bother in her action.

She removed Arthur’s satchel from her shoulder and placed it on top of his grave, leaving it behind to serve as a memento to the other person who had visited him all these years. She was just selfish enough not to give away the precious journal in her arms. For her, perhaps just a small token like his bag would’ve been enough to show her appreciation to the stranger that paralleled her admiration.

She opened the journal once again, trying to make sense of it all. She landed upon the same page that boggled her mind, the mention of a person named Francis Sinclair – a man turned baby. It was a confusing thought not only for Arthur, but also for her. She pulled out the business card tucked between the bundles of letters that came along with the journal. As she ran her fingers along the worn edges, her eyes just barely managed to make out the faded words below the name.

“Looks like I’ll be going to Strawberry, Mr. Morgan. Maybe I’ll see you soon enough, if fate would have it.”


	2. A stranger's duress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello once again! Thank you for the warm reception of this fic for its very first chapter, I wasn't really expecting much attention brought to it considering how obscure the pairing was. Really, thank you very much! I'm hoping I can continue this till the very end, and I have lots planned for it. So far, it's looking quite well for me.
> 
> And again, thanks and enjoy the second chapter, hopefully it's as good as the first one.

He was filthy, absolutely filthy.

An all-out brawl with the local townsfolk was not what he had in mind at the first sight of town in weeks. Then again, he thought it was most fitting to symbolize his grown hatred for all of civilization. Its mighty, dark tendrils were just swallowing the landscape, consuming the last bits of the open land that he treasured. It wasn’t long before it takes over, surmounting them, suffocating them, until everything about living a free life becomes a blur, or an unreachable dream.

He knew he’d catch Miss Grimshaw’s flack over all the mess he’s carrying right into camp, but he had grown far too irritated of the civilized life to bother going to the hotel and take a bath. Hell, a dollar for a bath is just far too much to even handle for him, not when everyone back at camp can barely get enough to eat. A dollar or two could fetch them a steak or a couple of cans of food, enough for a single day, and maybe enough to lift little Jack’s spirits up after what transpired in Blackwater.

All this thinking of food had Arthur’s stomach rumbling. He wasn’t so sure if Pearson had enough supplies to whip up a stew, so he climbed down from his steed and pulled out a bow and a couple of arrows. The path he’d trodden on was teeming with rabbits, and he just had to fetch a couple to bring back to camp. He crept up towards one, standing idly, and shot. The tip of the arrow just barely managed to miss, and off it went scurrying to live for another day.

“Ah, shit.”

He cursed louder than he intended, and a flood of birds and the remaining rabbits he had wanted so badly to hunt down began scampering away from the surrounding area. He tried to draw his bow and shoot at one of them, but they were already a long way from his direction, leaving all his efforts futile.

“Arthur, you damn idiot,” he snapped. 

His deep, gravelly tone must have been heard by something else, as not long after, a presence made its way before him, rattling the leaves. It was hiding between the trees and shrub. He pulled back on the string towards the direction of the noise, hoping to scare whatever, or whoever, it was away.

“Stand back. Don’t come any closer.”

The figure froze on its tracks. It gave Arthur enough time to try and make out its silhouette, to determine it as either enemy or friend. But he doesn’t normally see friends out here in the wilderness.

“I’m sorry,” a soft, feminine voice spoke. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You a… bounty hunter, or somethin’?” Arthur questioned.

“If rabbits are worth a good penny, then I suppose I am.”

Arthur wasn’t expecting a lady coming out of the shadows, and it helped ease the tension that began building around them. He lowered his draw and tipped his hat at her direction. Locks of her raven hair drooped from her head when she nodded in return.

“I-I’m sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to intrude on your huntin’,” he apologized.

 “It’s fine. I managed to snag a couple before they got away.”

Arthur’s eyes darted to her hand, and saw the two bloody rabbits dangling by their ears.

“Fine work, miss.”

“I learned from the best,” she said with a coy smile. “You scared those rabbits right towards me. Made for some easy pickings.”

“You mean I was busy missin’ some shots,” he retorted. “I’ll look for another spot to hunt-“

That’s when he saw it – the water that began to fill her eyes, and her lips that quivered under the sight of him. _Arthur you old fool, you’re doing it again,_ he thought to himself. He removed his hat and planted it on his chest, lowering his head in shame.

 “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to scare you miss. I don’t mean you no harm. Not at all. I’m goin’.”

“W-wait.”

She walked towards him as she wiped the wetness off her face with her free hand. He jumped a little at her sudden movement. The woman noticed his reaction and slowed down a bit, still clutching the bloodied remains of the rabbits as if it weren’t there. “I’m the one who should be sorry. It must be silly, seeing me like that,” she said, a polite tone evident in her voice. She was just inches closer now, and more and more of her features became clear to him.

“You need a ride somewhere, miss? I’m happy to oblige. Valentine’s not so far from ‘ere.”

“Thank you for the offer, but, I was kind of hoping if I could come with you.”

Arthur raised a brow.  “What?”

“I’m a runaway you see. I came all the way from Chicago. I’m looking for a place to lay low for a while; maybe somewhere I know people won’t recognize me.

He shook his head. “I’m sorry but, it ain’t no business of mine.”

“Please. I’m… My… My husband, he’s looking for me. He’ll kill me when he finds me.”

“What you do? Fool around with another man or somethin’?”

“I’m… I’m not that kind of woman.”

“Then what did he do? He… He abusin’ you?”

“No, it’s not like that.” Instead of answering his query, she shot a smile towards him. “Perhaps some money could change your mind?

“Cash?” he asked as he rubbed the stubble on his chin. “How much we talkin’ about?”

“A hundred dollars,” she said boldly. “And maybe two hundred dollars more when I know I’m safe.”

Arthur knew a hundred dollars would be enough to get the camp back to feet, but three hundred? It wasn’t as much that could help them stay afloat, but it’s a lot to hold onto.  Part of him wanted to refuse and maybe just rob the poor woman, but he fought against that thought.

“Seems like a lot of money on your person.” He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Are you sure you should be tellin’ me ‘bout that money?”

“Why not?”

He was going to say he was a bad man that she thought he was, but the words he wanted to say was caught in his throat. He cleared it with a cough and began again. “I’m… I’m part of a gang of outlaws you see…”

She laughed.   “You… you are quite honest.”

“I should be saying that to you, miss.”

“I know. Still, being an outlaw doesn’t change anything. That even makes the whole idea better.”

“I’m sorry but… I can’t go lettin’ anyone join, you know?”

“That’s why I’m paying you. And there can be more to go around, if you catch my drift.”

“Your what?”

“Never mind,” she said, chuckling.

He stared off the distance behind her, shrouding himself in his thoughts. Dutch probably wouldn’t approve of this, not when they’re still trying to avoid the law from gunning them all down. But upon seeing her worn figure once again, bluegreen eyes tracing the grime on her dress, and the dust that settled on her cheeks, it was clear she needed help. Money wouldn’t save her out here in the wilderness, no, but a cozy fire and a sleeping roll to lie on would.

“Fine, fine. But my boss ain’t gonna be happy.”

She beamed. “Thank you. Don’t worry, I’ll try and make myself useful, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Arthur’s fingers pointed towards the corpses of the rabbits she still held up until now. “What are you gonna do with those then?”

“Oh these,” she said, before straddling the rabbits on her shoulder, “I think they’ll do a perfect job of breaking the ice.”

He shrugged. “I don’t think no rabbits could do something like that,” he remarked. “And I don’t think we have ice back at camp either-“

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she interrupted, rolling her eyes. “We should just get a move on.”

“Right. Sure.”

With a whistle, his horse came galloping along, introducing itself to the stranger. It’s huge, towering figure coupled with its black fur and mane was intimidating enough to startle the woman, but only for a bit. She crept up close and caressed its chin and snout.

“He’s a looker, but he ain’t gonna bite,” Arthur joked.

“He’s lovely. What’s his name?”

“Prastag,” he answered. “Tie up those rabbits by the saddle.”

He climbed on top of the massive steed and offered a hand to the woman once she finished securing the rabbits. “Come on up.”

Her hand felt strong, but tender in its grace. For a city woman, he expected her to have trouble riding a horse, but she managed quite naturally. More suspicions arose in his head when he remembered she caught those rabbits rather effortlessly as well.

“I’m afraid we haven’t introduced ourselves yet, and we’re already riding together. I’m Charlotte. Charlotte Balfour.”

Arthur turned his neck and reached a hand to his back, initiating a handshake in the middle of their ride. “The name’s Arthur. Arthur Morgan.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Morgan. And thank you.”

And with a tip of his old leather hat, Arthur had welcomed a new member into the group.

* * *

 

Dutch was just about ready to pop off.

“Are you insane, Arthur?”

Dutch’s hoarse scolding echoed throughout the boundaries of Horseshoe Overlook. Arthur could see the scoffing from Bill and Uncle in the distance in between the short mutters and lengthy shouting he had to endure from the man. John glanced at their direction from time to time, shaking his head at the sight, and Arthur always shot back at him with a mean glare that was enough to rile the man’s hide.

“What are you thinking?” Dutch continued. “You think she’s gonna get along just fine and dandy? She’s not one of us.”

“So was Jenny, Dutch. But she got along just fine-“

“Don’t you talk about Jenny,” Dutch grumbled. “Bringing that woman over here isn’t going to bring her back!”

His words thrust his chest like a spear. “I know, Dutch but… She was all alone. She had nowhere to go to. She ain’t gonna survive out there.”

“We’re supposed to be hiding from the law, you damn fool. You’re going to jeopardize this whole operation!”

“Ah well, you go shoot ‘er then, if yer so up and arms about it,” Arthur complained. “Continue the ol’ Dutch tradition of shooting innocent women like back at that ferry job-“

“Shut the hell up Arthur. Just get rid of her.”

“I promised her she’ll be safe,” Arthur answered. “Like you did with Mrs. Adler.”

“That… that was different.”

“It ain’t so different,” Arthur hollered.

A familiar cough pierced through their heated argument. It seemed that Hosea had a fun time watching the two boys bicker as he walked towards them with a silly smile on his face.

“No need to get worked up about this, you two,” he said calmly.

“So what do you think we should do then, Hosea?” Dutch asked.

Hosea peered behind them, as if he was rummaging through his thoughts. “I’ll have to agree with you Dutch. This boy’s a goddamn fool for bringing a girl like her in this camp.”  Arthur responded with a frown, feeling defeated.

Hosea continued. “But there’s nothing we can do but to roll along with it. See what she has to offer. We need more hands around here.”

“Are you sure about this Hosea?” Dutch said, raising a brow.

“I’m not so worried,” Hosea reassured him. “If she was out there for a long time, I’d say nobody’s gonna be looking for her here, of all places.”

Hosea glanced at Arthur. “What did you say her name was, again?”

“Charlotte. Charlotte Balfour.”

And like clockwork, Hosea went on to face the rest of the camp. “Anyone around here who’ve seen her before, or knows her name?”

Everyone had the same answer, just a long stare or a quick shrug. Nobody really knew, nor cared about who she was.

“That settles it then,” Hosea said, waving a hand. “She’s gonna have to stay. Letting go of her now is a risk we can’t take.”

Arthur threw a grin at Dutch’s direction. “Well then, seems like we have an agreement.”

Dutch scowled back. “Oh be quiet, Arthur. Just keep an eye on her. Never, ever let her out of your sight.”

“Sure, Dutch, whatever you say,” Arthur replied.

They parted ways, with Dutch retreating back to his tent to continue his afternoon reading. Arthur walked to his favorite spot in the camp, beside the tallest tree just inches from the cliff. Hardly anyone goes there besides John or Mary-Beth, and it was a good place to take a smoke break and take everything in. Hosea didn’t really know where else to go, except to follow the troublemaker into his personal space.

Arthur ignored him at first, and lit up a cigarette.

“Am I really a damn idiot for bringing her in, Hosea?”

The old man coughed a little before he could answer. “You could very well be.”

“I suppose you’re right.”Arthur let out a small laugh and smoked.

“You’ve never done this before, haven’t you?”

He let out a small puff of smoke, wrapping the area around them with a cloud. “No. Well… I almost did, twice, but those were a long time ago.”

“What makes this one so special then?”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “She… asked.”

“I don’t quite understand.”

“Me neither,” he agreed.

Hosea patted his shoulder. “Don’t let old Dutch get to ya. I’m sure he’s just getting a bit riled up, especially with the law going after us and all. That woman’s gonna be the least of his concern sooner or later.”

“Sure.”

A familiar and calming face came marching along towards them with a bundle of clothes on top of her hands. Arthur straightened up a bit, something Hosea took notice with glee.

“Hello Hosea. Hello Arthur,” she greeted with a nod to the both of them.

“Hi Mary-Beth,” the gruff man greeted back. “Whatchu up to?”

“Well, I heard the woman you brought in didn’t have any other clothes, so I’m giving her some of mine. Think these’ll fit her?”

“Sure, both of you seem to 'bout the same size. That’s awfully sweet of you.”

“I don’t mind,” she said, smiling. “It’s not like I’m going off into town everyday and showing off these drapes.”

Hosea smirked. “At least somebody’s excited to see a new face around.”

“I’m sure Tilly and Karen are just as excited. I mean, Mrs. Adler is nice and all but she’s a bit too… moody, if that’s the right word for it.”

“That woman lost her husband, “Arthur remarked. “Of course she ain’t gonna warm up so to all of you so soon.”

“I know, “she answered. “I’ve only read a couple of stories so far with widows in them, but they don’t normally talk about how she’s acting.”

“Life isn’t a fairy tale Mary-Beth,” Hosea chimed. “You can’t just assume every woman out there is gonna react the same way.”

She glanced towards Sadie, sitting on a rock just a couple of paces in front of them. She met her almost permanent melancholy with a concerned gaze.

“I just… I just wish I would never go through what she did.”

“I’m sure nobody wants to,” Hosea reassured her. “For now, do your best to lift her spirits. Our group’s the only thing she has left.”

“I understand. I’m sure I can make her smile someday.” She started wandering off before turning her back to the two men again. “I almost forgot to ask. Where is this woman you brought in anyhow?”

“She should be by the river with Miss Grimshaw. Poor woman’s been pretty filthy, being out alone in the wilderness an’ all,” Arthur explained, gesturing down the cliff in front of him. “Don’t stray too far from the road now, you hear? There might be some O’Driscolls about.”

“Don’t worry ‘bout me Arthur, those O’Driscolls don’t scare me at all.”

“I’m sure they’ll be none the wiser once you rob ‘em blind,” he said jokingly.

“I’ll try,” she said, giggling. She waved a hand at the two and went on her merry way, leaving them to their own devices.

Arthur savored the momentary peace a bit, inhaling a bit of smoke before breathing it out again. Hosea was more than eager to break the silence as usual.

“You’ve always been so sweet on the girls, Arthur.”

“Hosea, not now…”

He raised his hands. “Don’t mind me. I’m just saying… You’re a big old brute that loves to hide behind that tough exterior, but these girls really know how to break you wide open. That new girl must have struck you the same way, hasn’t she?”

Arthur didn’t reply, only keeping a stern, grouchy look plastered on his face.

”I feel the same way about Bessie too,” he shared to the grumpy man. “Between all this fighting and killing and robbing… They really know how to brighten up our miserable lives.”

Arthur cast his eyes downward, and inhaled the last of his cigarette.  The last smoke always felt the best to him. It warmed him well enough, giving him a reminder that he was still alive. Whenever the hot air left his lungs, all that’s ever left behind was an empty shell to him.

“John’s a goddamn fool. He always will be.”

“Don’t get too jealous now,” Hosea teased. “I’m starving. I’ll go see what Pearson cooked up for us today. You gonna spend all your time there sulking or you are you gonna come with me?”

“Go ahead,” he growled, before dumping the last bit of cigarette that he had left on the ground and smoldered it.

“Suit yourself,” Hosea said before leaving.

The sun was beginning to set, painting an orange sheen onto the horizon. The others have begun convening towards the center of the camp, eager to grab a bowl of soup that Pearson had enthusiastically prepared with the rabbits Charlotte presented to them.

Although the rest seem to be less appreciative of Pearson’s cooking talents, Arthur really only cared about the fact that everyone’s getting food into their bellies, especially after their close call back in the mountains. Nothing else in their situation broke him more than seeing Jack cold and hungry, begging his momma for another bite to eat. If he and Charles didn’t find some deer to hunt that day…

“Arthur.”

The scar-faced man broke his trance just as swiftly as it began.

“Speak of the devil,” he mocked. “Those scars seem to be treating your ugly mug pretty well.”

“You’re always quick with the jokes, aren’t you?” John said with a petulant look on his face.

“Can’t help joking in front of a joke of a man.”

“Could you stop it for one second? I know… I know I made a mistake. I ran off for a while.”

“For a year,” he added. “A goddamn year.”

“I’m sorry for it.”

“Saying sorry isn’t gonna cut it.”

“I know.” John couldn’t help but focus his eyes towards Abigail as she scooped up a ladle of soup into Jack’s bowl. “I just… I don’t understand that woman.”

“She’s a mother. That’s all you need to know.”

It was hard for Arthur to talk about Abigail. It almost always opened a wound from a long time ago. He knew very well that all his built up resentment is just an excuse for him to lash out at John.

“So… What’s that woman’s story then?” John asked.

“Who?”

“You know who I’m talking about.”

“Ah… I ain’t sure. Says she left her husband, but I don’t think she’s tellin’ the whole truth. Still, she asked to come, so I let her.”

John couldn’t help but stare at him in disbelief. “I don’t get you at all.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Arthur ridiculed.

“I know what it’s like already; to have a woman just hounding you every single day.”

“Ain’t that something _you_ should be worried about yourself?”

“Why else would you bring a woman like that here?”

“Not everything needs explaining, especially not after the stunt you pulled.”

“I’m starting to get tired of you pissing on me all the time, when you can’t even let me apologize for my actions.”

Arthur sighed. “Exactly.”

John shook his head.  “Well, if it’s worth anything, I trust you made the right decision, whatever it was.”

“And here’s hoping you start following suit. Now go to your family.”

“Alright then, Arthur.”

By then, Arthur has lost most of his appetite. He was about to grab another smoke again, but Miss Grimshaw appeared at the corner of his eye with the woman of the hour in tow.

Mary-Beth’s clothes were a perfect fit, and she looked clean and proper, far from the sorry sight that Arthur had seen her initially. For him, it seemed like Miss Grimshaw and Mary-Beth came back with a whole other person.

Charlotte greeted the gang with a fairly meek hello, catching the attention of the rest of the gang that were already busy eating. The many eyes that wandered towards her were enough to make her flustered. She hid behind Miss Grimshaw and treated her like a shield. Mary-Beth laughed and gave her a little shove, mouthing a few words of encouragement that Arthur couldn’t hear but only assume.

The new woman then directed her gaze towards the lone cowboy at the corner with a warm smile plastered on her lips. Arthur took a deep breath and exhaled, releasing the heat of the smoke that still lingered within him. He tipped his hat to her and went on to join them. 


	3. New lesson for an old crone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, back at it with another chapter. This one took extra long but mostly because I wanted to end this chapter at the right pace. Enjoy, and thank you once again for the wonderful compliments. They really brighten up my day a bit and motivates me to continue writing.

It felt like a fleeting dream.

Charlotte still couldn’t believe her eyes, not one bit. To see him again, alive and well, was a miracle she was beholden of. She was still unsure of what Francis did, but all she knew was that her consciousness ended up back into her youthful self, back in Chicago where she lived in a lap of luxury. Her wrinkled face and her graying sodden hair was a thing of the past now, how ironic it may seem to be. Whatever she held closely in her hand transferred alongside her, and she was ecstatic to find the journal intact, cradled within her arms. It was not easy to convince him. It took ages to find those additional rock carvings that he needed, and she didn’t dare ask why as Arthur did too. It was hard for her not to be well alarmed at the number of times she saw a swastika, which was something she grew familiar of through her books, alongside a myriad of violent themes. She scratched her head many times trying to figure out its meaning, but in the end, she didn’t think it meant anything.  It was none of her concern. In fact, the whole time travelling nonsense should be kept well at the back of her mind, lest she goes crazy for over thinking it.

All that mattered was that he was back, alive and well.

“You know we can’t do this,” she told him. It hurt her so much, saying those dreadful words in front of him, but she knew nothing else except that. She saw his face twisting in shock, and the curl on his face fade away.

“I don’t understand. Why? We planned this together. I… I…”

She placed a finger on his lips, hoping to calm him down, and then kissed him. He was just the terrible kisser she always knew, and savored that moment knowing it wouldn’t last long.

“I’m sorry, Cal. I have to go.”

Walking away was the hardest part. She saw him fall down to his knees, trembling. “What did I do? I’m sorry, I’m sorry Charlotte. I want to be with you. I really do.”

She faced him with a wry smile. “I know, Cal. But I can’t watch it happen again. Not ever. Stay here, and be safe. I love you.”

A pang of doubt was still stuck within her, and wondered if she should still see this plan through. Still, she entered the train with little hesitation, taking a quick look at her husband’s sullen expression before it departed. She knew Cal would be safe here, to prosper in a place they’ve already recognized for so long as their own home. It was not the open range they’ve been longing for, but it was well away from bears and poison berries.

The last time she went on this train, the ride went on for hours on end. Her brain was wracked with ideas of what to do once she and Cal got there. Cal thought about going into town and meeting the locals, and make new friends. Meanwhile, she spoke of making her very own little garden and managing it all by her lonesome, growing whatever she felt like eating. She pictured herself plucking tiny cherry tomatoes from her plants, and digging up some potatoes from the soil she breathed life into.

But life out there was different from all the books she’s ever read. Even though they were away from the restraints of high class society, they found themselves in an all new environment filled with dangerous wildlife and all kinds of suspicious folk. Every waking day felt like a nightmare, with each night filled with terror at every rustle of a leaf or howl of the wind from the outside. Any day, robbers could have invaded their home and killed them in cold blood, all for the large swaths of money they held onto, which were merely remnants of the past they willingly threw away.

That terror was eventually fulfilled, not by a gunshot, but by ravenous teeth. She could only watch in horror as Cal was beaten, bit, and dragged for what felt like forever, as she frantically threw rocks at the grizzly’s head, hoping to drive it away. All they wanted was a proper meal, not be one. When Cal became too tired to struggle and hold on to his own life, possibly feeling every single pain and suffering imaginable, the bear quickly lost interest and went away as if nothing happened. She dragged his mangled body back home, trying to salvage his existence, but it was all for naught. He hanged on for a while, but you could only do so for so long with half an arm and a leg, and a torso contorted into a mess of blood and gore.

All she could think about was that they were a pair of fools, trying to live a dream that they weren’t prepared for, and Cal paid the price for it, and eventually she shall too. Part of her wanted to die alongside him, but she was too afraid to end it all. She stayed; weeping on top of his grave, hoping the same bear would hear her wails and come back and finish what it had started. She still ended up encountering a bear in the end, but it was not quite how she pictured it. She thought it was hilariously coincidental - a man whose name literally meant bear came to save her.

A towering man with a sunken look on his face greeted the fresh widow, and comforted her in a way she never expected of a stranger. She did not know what else to say that day, except to pour out the anguish within her, telling her story and where it all led to – a shallow grave that was there right in front of them.  That man showed a kindness that even she could not fathom, bringing her up from her darkest hours, and giving her a second chance in this cruel world she lived in. He taught her how to skin a rabbit and shoot a gun, all without even telling her his name.

Their encounters were short, but they were meaningful, and comforting. He knew his final days were coming, yet he stayed and watched over her, not caring about the little time he had left. She didn’t know if she deserved it, for she always lived a life of indulgence and greed.

For many years, regret overcame her thoughts when she remembered the time they parted ways. A simple peck on the cheek wasn’t enough of a thank you anyhow, nor would any money and item that she offered him. Her courteous mind kept her body from doing the one thing she wanted, to pull him into her embrace to comfort him in his final days, and in return, to envelop her in his warmth that she never knew she wanted. Now she was given the opportunity to relive that choice again, only this time she was aware of her options. But she couldn’t just settle with that, no. A silly hug wouldn’t cure his illness.

She tightened her grasp of the bag she carried with her where the journal was safely kept. It was her guide to save not only him, but the Marstons as well. That and a revolver she inconspicuously tucked alongside it were her tools to achieve what her plans. One thing she was unsure of, however, was how his time moved parallel to hers. She feared it was too late to save him from catching the disease that slowly killed him. Her only hope was that they were still in Horseshoe Overlook where it all began.

When she arrived in Valentine, there was hardly a time to think for her. She leapt down from the train and began walking at a brisk pace south of the town. She didn’t think of buying supplies or finding a stagecoach to take her to her destination, and insisted that she can arrive there in one piece.  Her exhaustion began to weigh her in, and just as she was about to begin resting her eyes for a couple of hours under the shade of a tall tree, the man she was searching for popped into her view, just like that. She had stumbled upon him randomly like as to how he stumbled upon her long before.

* * *

 

Between all the whispers and the hushed tones, the sun was beating heavily against her temples. Most of the clothes in front of her still needed a good old fashioned washing, and she has spent way too long trying to deduce whose clothes it were that it certainly impeded her task.

It was hard, honest work that is hardly unfamiliar. The days she spent living out alone gave her enough experience to deal with her own responsibilities, no matter how large and small they may seem to be. There was still a rather surreal essence to the madness that enclosed her senses. It almost felt like yesterday, albeit on this timeline it indeed was, where she had once the command of maids and butlers at will. Now, she took their role, serving people she barely even knew just for the opportunity to stay within the gang.

She took delight in the few moments Arthur asked her how she was, which he had fortunately grown into a habit. A part of her knew it was just his job to look after her, and another to quell his suspicions about her own origins, but she still enjoyed them all the same. When he finally got back to her to check up on her progress, she took the opportunity to converse with him fully.

“How are you doin’, Mrs. Balfour?”

“Please, call me Charlotte,” she pleaded. “And I don’t think I’m a Mrs. Balfour now anyhow. But, I would like to keep the name.”

“Only if you start calling me Arthur. A fair trade.”

“Sure, Mr. Morgan- I mean, Arthur. I’d like that.”

Charlotte stole a look at Arthur who was leaning by the side of a wooden frame, watching her drone through her task like a natural. She snickered at the thought of Arthur’s gaze enveloping her frame.

“You’re a good worker,” he commented.

“I’ll take that as an insult, Arthur.”

“No, no, I don’t mean it like that,” he corrected, a bit flustered from her answer. “I mean, you don’t seem to complain at all about all them work Mrs. Grimshaw’s givin’ you.”

“Oh, I’m used to it. I may not act, sound or even look the part of a southerner like you, but I’ve managed stuff like these on my own for quite a while now,” she said, wiping some sweat from her brow.

 “I ain’t no southerner. I prefer to consider myself as a westerner.”

 “We’re all westerners, Mr. Morgan.”

“Arthur.”

“Yes, Arthur, sorry.”

“But you’re right. We ain’t all that different. People around here came from all sorts of places. Well, most of ‘em are still Americans, but Javier, well, kinda obvious he’s from Mexico. And Strauss? I forgot where he came from… Australia I think?”

She chuckled. “I think you meant Austria.”

“Yeah, that’s the one. How’d you know?”

“I’ve been sparking up some conversations around camp, just to cut through the thick air. Get to know a bit of the people.”

“Well I’ll be. Guess you’re one of us already,” Arthur said,

“I don’t think so as of yet, but I’m glad you think that way.”

Arthur crossed his arms, further resting his back into a rooted respite. Charlotte watched him for a bit, his mouth slightly agape as if in deep thought.

“I was thinking,” he began. “Since you’ll be around us for a while, you might wanna go into town sometimes and get some supplies you might need. I can’t really go around givin’ you a ride anytime you want, so you’re gonna need your own horse. “

“Ah, yes, thanks for reminding me. If you could give me a ride to town, I can buy one on my own. I still have money left to buy one I think.”

Arthur shook his head.  “Oh, you don’t need to waste money on that, Charlotte.” He pointed beyond the horizon, to the outside world that their camp was smack right in the middle in. “See out there? There’s quite a number of wild horses out there ripe for the picking. Those wild horses you see, out on the open range, those mares have seen more in its life than possibly the both of us combined.”

She watched Arthur ramble on, his passion for steeds oozing from his mouth.

“Those horses in them stables? They’ve been fed, been pampered so well, they’ve forgotten what it’s like to be to be out here, struggling to find a nice patch of grass to graze on, and avoiding anything that’s out to get ‘em. They’re gonna twist and turn at every new sight and they’ll knock you off faster than you could blink. They’re not the ones you see out here. They learned the laws of the land, knows what things’ll get you killed or things you can just swat like a fly. Most horses might be dumb as rocks compared to us but they’re a genius out here.”

“That’s wonderful insight,” she said, admiring his words. “You know, you’re almost the same.”

Arthur scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I guess I tend to act like an idiot at times...”

“No, no, silly. I mean, you lived out here all your life, so you’re a master at this. Meanwhile, I’m one of those mares you talk about in the stables, just a hopeless woman who once lived in high society now in the face of the wild.”

“Naw, you’re special honestly. I don’t ever see someone like you coming from the city and snagging rabbits left and right.”

“It was just one time. But maybe you’re right. I’m flattered, Mr. Morgan, as strange as it is, comparing ourselves to horses.”

“Well, it’s better than being compared to those loons back at camp,” he said, laughing at the thought.

Charlotte endeared it, as none was a rarest sight to see than to watch the large, brawny man melt into his own humor. Arthur left from his posture and reached out with one hand.

“Well, we best be going now. I shall try to find you a horse that you’re going to like. But if not, we can always sell it to the stables and get you another.”

She took his hand, its strength lifting her with ease. “Oh, I’m quite certain you’ll find the best an outlaw can offer. So where are we headed?”

“The Heartlands. I saw a couple of horses ‘round there right by the old oil rig, I reckon they’re gonna make for some fine travels. Oh and, don’t worry about work. One of the girls can cover for you. Right, Tilly?”

Charlotte almost forgot that Tilly was just close by, listening in to their conversation.

“Alright, Arthur,” Tilly said, eyes rolling. “But just this one time. Enjoy yourself out there, Mrs. Balfour.”

“Are you sure? It’s not any trouble?”

“I’ve been here far longer than you have, Mrs. Balfour. It’s nothing to worry about.”

She shot a grin towards Tilly, grateful of her help. “Thank you, miss Jackson.”

She could almost swear she heard light giggling as she went off with Arthur. When the impatient cowboy’s footsteps began to pace faster than what she could muster, she forgot all about it.

After climbing aboard Prastag with Arthur right in front of her, she could not lie to herself. She will miss being at the back of his horse as he rode, feeling his hard stomach around her arms and resting a head on his broad shoulders.  There is no greater bliss for her than to be finally close to a person she had long admired. Gone were the days of speaking in front of an empty space, a voice targeted to another that never answers. She wondered if Arthur liked it too, but she couldn’t see his face, only being able to trace the light skin of his nape, and drenching herself in the blueness of his worn shirt.

The trip was mostly quiet save for the chirping birds and skittering rodents in the forest path. Just as how quickly the forest began was when it all ended, and what came next was a wide, seamless space, free from the trappings of trees and shrub. Colossal rocks towered above them like the tallest buildings she had ever seen from her city, not made of steel or iron but of limestone and shale. Seeing the open skies above them as hawks and other birds breezed past felt like she was tethered to the ground, forever bound to the ground below.

“You should’ve told Dutch that I paid you so I could come along,” she said, trying to initiate conversation.

“Nah, I reckon it ain’t worth it, especially not with those bastards around camp. Dutch… He’s gonna leech off you and throw you away once he’s got all of what’s yours. I can’t let him do that.”

“I see… I guess I should thank you. It makes me wonder why you haven’t left him yet.

“He’s all I got. Him, and Hosea, at least. And I’m gonna let that slide this time, but don’t talk about him like that. He still let you go with us.”

“I suppose so,” she said, casting her eyes downward. “I just… I just don’t think he has the best intentions. For all of you.”

“Well, you’ll see. Once he makes a plan to get us all outta here, and back to the west where we belong with enough money to get us going, you’re gonna be grateful for him.”

_He never will, Arthur_ , she had wanted to say, but she fought against the thought.

Somehow, she didn’t notice the very thing that sullied the immaculate scenery of the world around her, a rusted scrap pile just protruding from the earth, tarnishing the lush and tranquil landscape before them. The structure only brought about a part of her of the life she had long given up; the menace of greed within people’s hearts.

Before they got any closer, Arthur tugged on the reins, stopping Prastag in his tracks. Arthur was the typical gentleman as ever, helping her down with a gentle nod. The man took out his binoculars from his satchel and looked through it, watching the meadow ahead.

**“** There, see?”

Charlotte watched four small silhouettes in the distance. She furrowed her brow for a bit, trying to make out their features, up until their tails, long mouths and stalwart bodies came into view. All the other horses sported a thick black coat, similar to Prastag, save for a lone horse in the middle in the pack, its brown, leather-like coat standing out in the midst of the lowland.

“That, there. A mustang. Fine breed,” Arthur remarked. “They’re quick on their feet, but won’t throw you off like them race horses you see from time to time.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Indeed it is. Stay right here, I’m gonna try and get it for you.”

She did not know enough about horse breaking in order to protest. “I will. Be careful.”

She watched the man carefully approaching the oblivious herd with light footsteps. The horses were skittish as she had expected, as they hounded him with neighs and raised hooves the moment they noticed his presence. Arthur’s gruff voice soon began to take over. Careful praise and calming sounds from him was all it took to ease the nerves of the horses he had initially startled. He kept ambling towards them, slowly but surely, and never relenting. Once Arthur was close enough to the mustang that he had set his sights on, he quickly latched a rope around its neck and hopped on its back.

What followed was a grueling back and forth between man and beast, with Charlotte being unable to do anything but see the drama unfold. The mare tried its very best to buck him off, kicking its feet over and over. Just as she thought that Arthur had the hang of the situation, the horse wanders too close to a giant rock, and the cowboy soon finds himself being launched to the ground.

“Arthur!” she quickly jumped into the fray, hoping he didn’t hit his head or worse. 

“I-I’m fine,” he said, rubbing his side that likely absorbed most of the impact.

“I’ll go and get him,” she said, before sprinting full speed to the steed that was retreating, not heeding the warnings Arthur shouted.

She copied what Arthur did the moment she climbed on, feeling the tense muscles of the horse arching and swaying, and reacting with a shift that helped keep her balance. Her intense focus made her unable to get a lucid understanding of some of the instructions Arthur was giving her, but all she learned was that she had to keep steady, and wait until the horse gave up. It wasn’t even a minute when it finally stopped struggling, but she felt like she was going at it forever.

Arthur whistled, greatly impressed by her perseverance. “You did quite well. Tried copying what I did, have you?”

“You have certainly taught me something new this time, Arthur. “

“Well, as far as I know Charlotte, this is the only thing I’ve taught you.”

“Yes, that’s right. Silly me.”

“He definitely is a beaut,” he said, running a hand on its chocolate coat. “So, what are you gonna name ‘im?”

“Well, with this color of hair surrounding this old brute… How about Arthur?”

“It’s a good name, for sure,” he said, chiming along with her joke. “But I don’t wanna spend time wonderin’ if you’re calling him or me just before we embark somewhere.”

“You are quite handsome, Arthur,” she said, caressing the stallion’s cheeks.

Arthur was as oblivious as ever. “W-what?”

“I meant the horse.” She snickered, relishing Arthur’s reddened cheeks. “I’m just messing with you. You are one easy man to tease, Arthur.”

“It ain’t funny. What if I started calling my horse Charlotte?”

“I’m not going to let you suffer, don’t worry. I think I have the perfect name for him – Willard, that’s it.”

He cleared his throat, calming himself down from his slight moment of weakness. “That’s quite a mouthful, for sure.”

“And Prastag isn’t?”

“Fair enough.”

Somehow, in the middle of their fussy conversation, Charlotte heard galloping off in the distance, and turned her head to the source of the noise. Her eyes widened upon seeing a group riding towards their direction, with only their dark hats recognizable at this distance.

“I… I think we have company.”

“I know,” Arthur said, readying to draw. “Charlotte, ride to the opposite direction. Now.”

“I can’t do that!” she said, her voice cracking from the tenseness.

“They’ll catch up to us, especially when the two of us or on the same horse. I’ll handle this. Just go.”

“But Arthur…”

“Go, NOW!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

She whipped the reins and Willard bolted, leaving the man alone to confront whoever the group was. She watched him approach the giant rock earlier, likely to serve as his cover once things went sour. Robbers or bandits, or maybe just curious folk – she was still unsure which of these matched whoever was going towards him.

_He’ll be safe. He’ll be alright. He isn’t meant to die here._

These thoughts flashed through her head, hoping to give her relief from her worries. But such thoughts only gave birth to a grim reminder that her meddling was now in full effect – Arthur may have never been fated to be here at this time and place, and she had inadvertently endangered his life.

Just almost a minute since she had committed to her escape, she turned and headed back for Arthur. She pulled out the revolver in her bag in case she needed to use it. That’s when she heard the shots ringing her ears in Arthur’s direction, followed by cracks of flesh and bone.

She was worried for nothing at all. Her return was met with a gruesome sight, three men with heads shot almost wide open. Another figure slumped to the ground, screaming. Arthur quickly turned to her direction, gun pointed directly at her forehead. She sees his bloodshot eyes for the very first time – it frightened her to a degree. When he had realized that it was only Charlotte, his eyes reverted into its old self. He lowered his gun.

“I told you to run.”

“I was worried.”

“I’m sure you were.”

Arthur crept to the man that he may or may not have purposely left alive. Upon closer inspection, a bullet had entered his shoulder rather than his head, but the poor man could hardly bear the pain brought about by it as he squirmed in the ground with an arm latched onto the wound. Arthur scanned him up and down, and spoke with a brazen fury evident in his voice.

“Bunch of brave fools, you lot.”

“I-I’m sorry. Please. Please don’t kill me.”

Charlotte watched the man beg for his life as the frustration awakened within Arthur, who was grasping tightly at his revolver that pointed to the man’s head.

“Shouldn’t have tried killing me then, O’Driscoll,” he answered, before pulling the trigger.

The outlands were now painted in a vibrant red. The vultures have begun to hover overhead, watching in delight for the corpses that riddled the landscape. Charlotte stared intently at Arthur as he holstered his weapon, and reached out to empty the dead man’s pockets as a final insult.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said as he poked around the body. “It’s best you realize what you’re joinin’ in now. This country is man unleashed – nothing but people fighting or robbing out here. A kill or be killed world.”

She almost wanted to laugh. It’s the very lesson Arthur had imparted on her before he succumbed to his illness, and now here he was repeating that very same lesson again. Except this time, they weren’t hunting rabbits. They were hunting people; people trying to steal, kill, or lie, but also people begging for mercy before they are needlessly slaughtered.

“I’m well aware,” she said, her voice now nearly as soft as a whisper.

“Your gun,” he said, prompting her to lift it up and inspect it. ”You’ve had that all this time?”

“To protect myself, yes.”

“You know how to shoot it? That thing doesn’t look like it’s been used in a while.”

“Of course,” she answered, sighing.

“Then get used to shooting with it. You’re gonna need it now more than ever.”

She wasn’t used to Arthur being like this. It seemed like his mind was wandering elsewhere as he emptied the pockets of his fresh kills. It was the first time she couldn’t remind herself of him, and it dawned upon her that this man was not the man she had been familiar with before. The same illness that killed him made him change from the way that he was now.

She pondered about her plan to save him. The recent sight tore through her like a knife. She thought that if he never catches the tuberculosis in the first place, then he would have never morphed into the person she had once loved and admired. He might as well be forevermore a new person, whose blind loyalty to a delusional father still persevered within his perspective.

“Get going,” he said. “More of these people might show up anytime.”

She did not answer, only leaving behind a dust of wind as she left the premises without hesitation.

The route back to camp was calm, a welcome atmosphere from what recently transpired in front of her earlier. She stopped at the fork in the road ahead. One road led back to Horseshoe Overlook where she can sleep and wake up another day, back to her old plan. The other, however, led towards Valentine, where a train station lies in wait.

She could just run right now, go back to Cal, and forget of all of this. She could take pleasure in some champagne as unfamiliar faces dabbled around her like sheep in a pen, watching them live their lavish lifestyles blissfully unaware of the brutality of the outside world. She would have maintained her plastic smile, and say yes to everything they say.

When she could finally convince Cal to have their own children, she could teach them the laws of the land as Arthur did, and prepare them for what might invade their life ahead. She would live old and die old, just as she was in the process of before, but this time surrounded by a family. Why should she care about Arthur and John, both of whom were vilely causing mischief wherever they went?

She took a heavy breath and slipped out the journal from her bag, trying to get the rough feel of the leather on her fingertips once again. She repeated her routine, skimming through the pages, searching for an entry with any trace of his encounter with her. There was none, as always, and she didn't know why she kept looking for it. Perhaps she was just one of the dozens of people he had helped, and he couldn’t write about them all. Or maybe he didn’t really care about her as she initially thought.

But then she sees those wonderful spreads of strangers Arthur had met - people of different backgrounds, of color, and of eccentricities, of whom most he had helped along the way, even before he learned of his condition. He wrote about most of them fondly with an unbelievably caring empathy that she could have never expected from a grown, tough cowboy, save for a few who he later learned were monsters in their own right.

These entries only gave her one message. Arthur was still himself, illness or no illness. A confused man, nonetheless, but one that still had the chance to be the person he once became.

She patted her newly acquired horse, whose dull eyes seem none the wiser. “Well, Willard, let’s get you a saddle.”

She headed to Valentine, not with just one errand, but two.


	4. Kindling or a handful of soil

“Morning, Miss Roberts,” Arthur greeted.

A faint, frosty mist left his mouth, reminiscent of the days they’ve spent coddled in a worn down village in the western Grizzlies. It had been a while since the air felt so cold, and the fire in front of them bellowed with an intensity that enraptured its surveyors. A pair of small, rosy hands grabbed the tin canister beside the fire, and poured a bit of coffee into a cup.

“Morning, Arthur,” Abigail greeted back.

“So how’s it going?”

“Same old same old… Still worrying about Jack. He’s not as worse as he was before while he was sick, but I’m still worried.”

“He’ll be fine,” he said, pouring a cup of coffee of his own.  “He looks all better already.”

He savored the warmth emanating from his cup. The soothing, toasty aroma sifted through his nose and tickled his nostrils. The bitterness quickly took hold of him once he finally took a sip, and made him lick his lips in delight.

Footsteps echoed somewhere near them, brought about by the woman that everyone had set their sights to ever since she first arrived. There was still a small remnant of trepidation that remained in the atmosphere around her, but it was far less than what Arthur had seen since the first few days she had stayed in camp. He had feared his recent actions out in the heartlands have scared her off as she didn’t arrive back in camp promptly as he had instructed her, but she didn’t seem fazed about the commotion, returning to the camp and reverting to her own normal self as if nothing ever happened.

Somehow though, she earned the ire of a couple of folks in the camp the moment she set foot by the campfire to warm her bones after one long day. He had a feeling her reaction – throwing a whole bottle of booze to the people that upset her - might have been warranted, but she hasn’t confronted them since she went to bed that night. He was afraid that her brashness at that time was a result of his own actions.

 “Good morning, miss Roberts,” she said, lightening up the mood between the three. It was that elegant, refined tone that stroked his ears once again.

“Isn’t it about time you talked to them,” Arthur chimed in, gesturing to two fellers soundly asleep by the campfire across from theirs. “Exchange a bit of politeness?”

“I always had my manners,” Charlotte grumbled. ”Those degenerates, however… Politeness have long left them, it seems.”

Abigail grew curious, judging from how quickly she turned to him. “Ain’t that a story you should be telling, Arthur?”

“It’s nothing, just some trouble we got a couple of days ago.”

He turned to face the woman again, but not before taking a sip of his coffee again. He was afraid to come off as a bit too aggressive, so he softened his voice a bit.

“Don’t take it too hard. To earn respect, you gotta give respect round ‘ere.”

She groaned. “I’m finding it quite difficult to respect _them_ ,” she said, shrugging towards the group of men huddled around the campfire.

 “They’re… special,” Arthur said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, okay, you got a point.”

“John could join them for all I care,” Abigail added. “Least he could do is talk to the boy at least a couple of minutes a day. He just keeps running off saying he’s planning something…”

“Sorry about that, Abigail,” Arthur apologized. “We’ve been planning to rob a train these past couple of days. He thought of a pretty damn good idea for it.”

“A train robbery? Him? You sure he ain’t _planning_ to send you all to your graves?”

Arthur laughed. “I thought that too. Can’t really tell how that idiot’s thinking these days. Ever since he got shot back in Blackwater and got mauled by some wolves, his brain’s startin’ to fire up like there’s no tomorrow.”

“And by the end of the day, he’s going to get himself run over by a train,” Abigail added.

“Then he’ll become the wisest man I know. But don’t worry about it Abigail, I’ll try not to push him to the tracks.”

“You could at least knick him real good for me.”

“I’ll do my best,” he assured her.

Charlotte was giggling all throughout their casual exchange. It seems that his shared frustration on John with Abigail helped lift Charlotte's spirits. Arthur scanned the two women standing side by side, each with a cup of coffee at hand and an arm curled around their chest.

“You two look similar,” he remarked.

“Like two peas in a pod?” Charlotte asked.

“Yeah… Whatever that means,” Arthur said, sighing.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Charlotte began. “I don’t think my wrinkly old face could match such elegant features of Miss Roberts here.”

“That’s… Thank you,” Abigail said. “And you’re not old, Charlotte. You still look like you’ve got a whole lot of years ahead of you.”

“I hope so,” she said with a wry smile. “Anyhow, I’ll be right back.”

“You do you,” Arthur complimented, nodding. She left with a slight sullen look on her face. It sent a twinge of guilt on his way, unsure if his words have spurred it.

“She’s a strange woman, that one,” Abigail commented, now away from Charlotte’s ears.

“What you mean?”

“First time she saw Jack… She pulled him into this longest hug I’ve ever seen.”

“Maybe she has children,” Arthur tried to explain. “Probably just misses them a lot.”

“I ain’t sure. She does remind me of you a lot, Arthur. The way you look at Jack. Maybe she would’ve loved Isaac.”

“That’s all in the past now.” They were six words he always repeated. Six words that he used an excuse. Six words that was nothing more than a lie.

“I’m sure,” Abigail reassured him. “Take care now. And thank you, for going fishing with Jack.”

As Abigail left him to his own devices, Arthur stared intently into the fire, the cackle of the flames drifting through the sea of orange and red. It was the only home he knew – an undying blaze that tore through the old remnants of bark and wood. It provided. It gave him shelter, food, and warmth. Many memories were spurred and eternally imprinted into him around the snug encroachment of flames.

In return, he gives. He feeds, he protects, and he keeps it bright and happy, even as he pushes himself beyond his own limits, or when it pained him to do what he had to do. He could never admit it to anyone, but to see the flames wither would break him. And lately, it has been that way, like a slow, grueling burn.

Two beady eyes emerged from across the fire. Strauss had come again.

“Herr Morgan! A fine morning to you.”

“Mornin’. You off lending some money again?”

Strauss looked at him with a curious expression. “Is there a problem?”

“No, no. Just askin’.”

“Well, I’m just here to bring you news. Apparently, Mr. Downes has paid off his debt,” he said with a smug look on his face.

“What? How?’

“A mystery donor, I presume. Gave him a lot of money to pay off the debt, and get his family moving to the city.”

“I’d like to get to know that mystery donor,” he said, spilling the little liquid left in his tin cup onto the soil. “Maybe whoever that was could make a worthy donation to our cause.”

“He said the donor didn’t want to be identified,” Strauss claimed. “A pity, really. It would have been a good lead. Anyway, I don’t have much time to dawdle. I’ll call you when there’s more money to collect.”

“I’m sure you will.”

Arthur didn’t know what to think, only to feel relieved that by some miracle, he could avoid doing the job he has long dreaded doing again. Downes was a good man, although a bit too good for him perhaps, and his kindness was paid in return. He couldn’t help but run through most of his past actions in recent memory, where he killed, robbed, and lied to people time and time again. If fate granted Thomas Downes a gift he rightfully deserved, he had long accepted that he was condemned to something he deserves as well, but not the kind he could use to achieve his dreams, no doubt.

The chillness of the air lingered for a while, tickling his lips and nose with its icy touch even after their somber reunion with morning coffee a while ago.  Slowly, most of the people started waking up, some holding their head in pain from the hangover they willfully cursed themselves upon, and others with a deep yawn so terrifyingly long, he wondered if they slept well at all. To him, it all feels like a recurring nightmare. To not see Mac, Davey, and Jenny among the sea of faces stabbed his heart time and time again, if he believed he ever had one.

Somehow, as he scoured the camp looking at people, he finds himself fixing his eyes towards Charlotte every time. She was bent down at Jack’s level, gaudy teeth and all, watching the boy play with a little stick. He couldn’t hear them from this distance, but when she knelt down unto him to lift him in her arms, carrying him towards her newly broken horse, a sort of panic began to creep up to him.

“What are you doin’?” Arthur questioned her once he caught up to them. With a hand underneath Jack’s armpits, Charlotte looked like she was bringing a puppy to its mother.

“Jack’s a bit curious about Willard here,” she said with such a laid-back expression that it was hard to tell if she’s up to no good.

“Well, you don’t _need_ to feed the little boy to the horse while you’re at it.”

“Don’t be such a worrywart, Arthur. I was just letting him touch him. You’re an overprotective one, aren’t you?”

“I… I guess,” he answered, feeling defeated by her words. “But you can’t just be bringing the boy in front of these feral horses. They’re an unpredictable lot.”

She sighed.  “I’ve kept a close eye on it all this time.”

The small boy was quite unmindful of what came close to a disaster waiting to happen. “It feels hard.”

“It’s a he, Jack,” she said, correcting him. “He is quite the big boy, isn’t he?”

“Horses are scary,” he said, flailing a bit in her arms prompting her to let him down.

“Why so?” Arthur asked him.

“Well… They’re big, and… and… smelly, I think?”

“Smellier than you?” Arthur mocked lightheartedly.

“A lot smellier than me,” he said, giggling as the little child he was.

Jack scurried off, another object likely now at his attention with his fickle mind. Charlotte was more than eager to continue their conversation.

“Why doesn’t John talk to him at all?”

“You ask too many questions Charlotte,” Arthur remarked. He watched her head tilt before he continued. “It should be obvious by now. John ain’t ready to be a father to Jack. Damn fool won’t even talk to him, hell, can’t even spare a couple of bucks for Abigail so she can buy the boy some clothes. ‘Cause of that, I’m left picking up after the boy. Have to take him fishin’, and payin’ for for his clothes. Sometime later I might have to be the one teaching him to ride a horse.”

“I’m sure John will warm up to him soon,” she said, trying to reassure him but to no avail.

“He better. All this is tirin’ me out.”

“It’s because everyone relies on you, Arthur. A little bit too much, in fact.”

“I don’t mind it one bit. If I have to, I have to.”

“I can’t say I have a good way to make that problem go away, but perhaps this will brighten up your day a little.” She pulled a wad of cash from her bag, thick paper bills rolled into a prim stack. “It’s the two hundred dollars I owe you. Here.”

She extended her hand, waiting for his to response in return. He paused, and exhaled through his nose.

“I don’t think I can take that. Not yet, at least,” he said, before pushing away her arm.

She met him with a raised brow. “You put up your end of the deal, Arthur. I don’t think I can feel any more at home than right now. Everyone welcomed me, although at varying degrees their mouths could muster.”

He couldn’t meet her gaze with hers. “I can’t lie to you. So long as you’re with us, you’re never gonna be safe. We’re wanted men, all of us. I have a bounty on my head more than ten times the money you’re offering. One day, either bounty hunters, lawmen or Pinkertons are gonna come knocking at our doors and kill all of us. You should leave us be, while you still have the chance. Use that money elsewhere than us sorry band of fools.”

“I know all the risks,” she replied. “I’ve even seen what you are capable of. What this gang is capable of. I was… I was apprehensive, at first. But now it doesn’t bother me as much as I would care to admit.”

After placing the money back into her bag, she pulled out the revolver in her bag nonchalantly, startling him.

“I can fight, Arthur, if I have to, or if you need me to. Anything the gang needs, I will be there.”

“You ain’t afraid to get shot?”

“Strangely, not anymore.”

He was perplexed, but did not bother to pry and ask. “Come on then. I wanna see how good you are.”

Arthur quickly nabbed a couple of empty bottles that Uncle and Reverend had been sitting on the night before and retrieved a rifle from his horse. He led her away to a more secluded area which was still an earshot away from Horseshoe Overlook, and went on to set-up a makeshift shooting range so Charlotte could show her prowess. He was doubtful of her skill, but it would rattle him if she was as good as she says she was.

“You have to make it more difficult than that,” Charlotte complained, gesturing the bottles that were flimsily scattered on a boulder. “I am no fair maiden to be trifled with.”

“I just wanna know if you at least know the basics,” Arthur explained. “Stop yappin’ and just shoot the damn thing.”

She shook her head in protest and raised her firearm, with a posture stern in appearance but teeming in delicateness. Her arm extended with a firm grip, thumb poking out, ready to flick the clamp. She had made her first mistake.

“You sure you wanna do that with just one hand?”

She ignored him. She pulled the clamp with much ferocity and shot. The initial recoil jolted her arm upwards, and sent the bullet flying nowhere, missing all the bottles stacked on the boulder.

“A small mishap,” she tried to excuse. She cocked her gun and added another bullet to the chamber. “Let me try again.”

“There’s no tryin’ in real life, Charlotte. You’re dead already.”

She bit her lip. “If I was just prepared, knowing my life was at stake… I definitely could. No, I definitely can.”

He sighed. He peeled the strapped rifle off his shoulder and approached her. As soon as he got close, he threw it towards her, baffling the young woman and causing her to slip, with the rifle landing just by her feet.

“That’s uncalled for,” she uttered angrily. “You can’t just throw around a gun like that.”

“If you can’t even catch a rifle bein’ thrown at you, how do you expect to go around riding around with us?”

“I expect bullets getting thrown at me, _not_ rifles. I’ve used one before, I just… I never experienced someone else throwing one at me.”

“That’s the way it goes around here. If you don’t have a gun the others will lend one to you, and just a moment’s hesitation can mean life or death.  You just died, again.”

As he lifted her from the ground, he figured she was just a deceived, misguided woman, all because he had accepted her offer to come with them. Thinking of taking up arms and doing the same dirty jobs as the rest of them were the last things he wanted her to aspire to. She was better than that, better than the rest of them.

“You keep talkin’ as if an outlaw life is something to be proud of, or something to enjoy. We don’t do it ‘cause we like it. We’re all out ‘ere tryin’ to survive, this ain’t no vacation like you think it is.”

“Give me that,” she commanded, pointing to the rifle that had already scared her before. “I’ll prove my worth, whatever it takes.”

“Fine. But after this, no more thinkin’ about it.”

To his surprise, her fidgeting faded in an instant once she grabbed hold of the gun. Something about the way she held it firmly and steady mesmerized him, pulling him into a trance. He watched her chest rise as the air flowed into her lungs. Frozen air left her mouth, churning the wind around her. She fired, leaving shattered glass scattered along the stones.

“Are you convinced now?” Charlotte asked with disdain.

Arthur was almost speechless. Her form almost reminded him of his. Scratching the back of his neck in confusion, he heaved a sigh and surrendered. “Come along then. Saddle up.”

* * *

 

This area looked just as how he remembered it, despite being away for many weeks now.

The Great Plains was just beyond the Upper Montana River. It was a place seemingly devoid of life yet open and free from the choking exteriors that enveloped their new residence. Further through was the desert area of New Austin, a vast, open landscape where the sky nearly touches the ground. It was his old home.

It was just hardly a stone’s throw away. It was the place Arthur built so many memories in, cascading in his mind like a relentless downpour. Nothing really stopped him from going down the crevasse and trotting through the river with his horse, all in an attempt to just feel the dry wind brushing against his skin once more.

But strong forces lie in wait for him, like a mountain lion against sheep, lurking in the shadows and waiting for the opportunity to pounce. There was no going back. The only thing he could do was to reach out, grasping the air before him, hoping that it was a remnant of his old home that found its way over to him.

It called to him. His name. His life. His dreams. But the gang had wandered to the east for far too much, many leagues farther from the paradise that he called freedom.

Arthur believed Dutch would solve all their problems, and that they will eventually return to their beloved home. Like an eager child from a long vacation, he thought of what he could do once they managed to get back.

He wondered if he should revisit their old camp and see if there were any trinkets and other tokens left behind that he could return to their rightful owners, unless they’ve been looted by some other folk already. And then it crossed his thoughts. He almost wanted to hit himself for forgetting it initially.

Arthur pictured them in his mind, with charcoal lines swirling and forming rough shapes of a little boy and his mother waving and smiling at his direction. Their graves were a bit further west from New Austin, but it was a long journey worth the trouble for. He could gather some of the same flowers he used to pick for his mother and place them around their graves. The least they deserve was something pretty to adorn their resting place, especially after being separated from them for this long.

He didn’t know what life beyond death was like, but the least he could do was to make sure they were remembered, even if it was only him and him alone that mourned for them in this ugly world.

“Blackwater’s over there, just a bit beyond the river,” he explained to the raven haired woman. She was holding the same rifle she shot with in her hand.

Strangely enough, she was relatively uninterested at the idyllic views around them. The firearm had chafed her hands for holding it tightly for far too long. Her eyes were wild, rotating at every sound and every rustle of the leaves. At this point he was sure that she had seen the light, and she was about to give up now and return to camp, but she was as stubborn as ever. In reality, he only ever invited her as a look out. He was never going to make her do something that would put her at risk.

“Don’t get too nervous now, or you’re gonna attract some bears,” he mocked.

“Bears haven’t scared me in quite a long time. It’s the people that scare me.”

He raised a brow. “Are you really sure you’re up to this? If it comes down to it, you’re gonna have to shoot someone.”

“I’m sure. You know, even a pampered city life is not without its violence. Chicago especially.”

“I’m aware.”

“What exactly are we going to do here in Strawberry anyway? It’s about time you’ve told me.”

 Arthur slowed his horse into a crawl. “One of our people you haven’t met yet, you know, Micah?”

The mention of his name lifted the girl from her apathy. “Yes. I know  him.”

“Yeah. He got into some trouble ‘round these parts and he’s in jail waitin’ to be hanged. I’m gonna break him out.”

“Or… we could leave him to hang,” she replied in monotone.

The trees fell silent around them. Arthur turned to her and sensed the air change around her. Her delicate hands that were once loosely gripped squeezed into fists, still wrapped around the stock and the barrel of the gun he had lent to her.

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t like him, right? You said so yourself that he should be hanged.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was just jokin’ around. I didn’t mean it.”

“Don’t deny it. You did.”

It hurt for him to say it. He looked away from her. “I suppose I did. That man… He ruined everything.”

He drummed his foot on the stirrup, trying to ease himself from the demons he had concealed for so long. Her eyes were still focused to him, unnerving him, and he had no other option but to come clean.

“We had a job, back in Blackwater. Hosea had this incredible idea ‘bout investments. I don’t know much ‘bout the whole shtick, all I know is that he was gonna fool some rich fellas into investing into this company we made promisin’ them a bunch of money later. Then we get a bunch more people to give us money, and we use that money to pay off the first set of idiots.. Then it’d just continue on and on until we’re all filthy rich. Man’s a genius, I tell you.”

He scratched his beard, the coarseness elevating him from the build-up of his fury. All the talking had tired his jaw a bit.

“But then Micah… Well, that idiot just had to take Dutch on this other job. Rob a ferry, he says, with lots of rich folk on board. I wasn’t there when it happened, but shit’s gone sour real quick. Last thing I remember was Hosea talking to me about how we go Blackwater first thing in the morning and initiate what we’ve been preparing for so long, when Javier comes running up into camp talking ‘bout how John got shot and Mac’s gone missing,. After that, well… everything went to hell.”

The most prominent thing that he pictured in his head was the inferno that surrounded them that day. The lawmen were ahead of all of them. They raided, guns blazing. He closed his eyes and clutched his chest as he recalled the scene. Jenny was the first to fall. Bullet hit her neck straight through. It left her gasping for air as the blood flowed and stained her pretty clothes. Lenny scrambled to put pressure on her wound in a futile effort to save his lover, and Tilly held her hand as she took her last breaths. She wasn’t screaming in pain. She was gurgling and choking on her own blood. 

All the while, shots were flying overhead, showering the camp in a hail of bullets. He did the only thing he can do – keep shooting. No time to mourn for a death of a friend. Only shoot, and then run. Davey ran too quick, and got shot in a place on his body that eventually put him under.

Charlotte peered at him. “He’s going to make that same mistake again.”

He was stunned, not at how she was fully expecting Micah to spur some trouble as he did before, but at the way she uttered her words with conviction.

 “Maybe he will. But he’s still a part of the gang. He may not have been ridin’ with us for long, but he’s just the same as you, as all of us. Tryin’ to find a place in this goddamn world.”

She bit her lip, and hung the rifle on her shoulder. There was tenseness in her hold of the saddle horn, and the way she looked ahead with little remorse from her ill talks of the man bothered him. He wasn’t so sure why she seemed so invested on their tale, and why she held such animosity towards a man she had never even met, only ever getting a picture of him through the stories that the others have told her.

After a long while, they arrived at Strawberry with the same tenseness still lingering in the air, a contrast to its vibrant small town façade. Charlotte remained unresponsive, resentment still labeled on her features.

“You should head back,” he consoled. “You don’t need to do this if you don’t want to.”

“I’m fine. I promised you Arthur. I’ll do this.”

He could always tell a lie. He had seen far too many people trying to squirm their way out of a situation, and her face showed all the signs he’s ever seen.

Arthur hitched his horse by the hotel and started hearing a shrilly noise coming from behind the sheriff’s office. A pair of hands was poking out between some bars.

“Arthur! Arthur! Over here.”

“Hello old friend,” he said, his pitch rising with sarcastic glee. “Had a good time, did you?”

“You gonna get me outta here?”

Arthur leaned back at the graphite wall beside them. “I ain’t decided yet.”

“Real funny,” Micha grumbled.

“Oh I ain’t joking, cowpoke. I heard so much bluster out of your mouth these last six months, and now I got the opportunity to watch you be silenced.”

“Well you gotta do _something_.”

“Why?”

“Well I... I always looked- Wait, someone’s comin’.”

Arthur jolted and turned his head, only to sigh in relief upon seeing Charlotte walk into their view.

“The hell you doing? I told you to stay back and watch the horses.”

She unfurled a bandana from her bag and tied it around her neck. “I just wanted to get a closer look.”

Micah barged into their argument with a suspicious grin. “Heh, a new recruit eh? She’s a looker.”

Charlotte ignored him. “Are we going to get this rat out of here or what?”

“Oooh.” Micah toyed with some strands of his moustache, his smile creeping into her. “She’s a feisty one like that Adler girl.”

“Shut up, Micah,” Arthur growled.

Arthur scanned the area, hoping to find something not as loud as a dynamite to get him free. The contraption that was conveniently placed in front of them piqued his interest.

“Yeah, yeah, hook that up to the bars. See if it could pull ‘em off.”

It did when he pulled the lever, cutting the bars away clean through, with half the wall along with it. To their surprise, Micah shot the other inhabitant stuck inside with him when Arthur hands him a gun. Charlotte and Arthur quickly put on their masks as the sounds alerted the townsfolk, much to their disappointment.

The firefight was long. Instead of hopping on to their horses, Micah dashed through the battlefield, taking them in circles throughout the small town.  Arthur looked over his shoulder from time to time, watching Charlotte closely as she fired shot after shot with deadly accuracy. It seems his concerns were not needed, as she did her job with finesse. It was surreal for him to see a city woman like her be so eloquent with a gun, making him blink at times as a result.

Following a scream of a woman from inside her home and some gunfire, Micah came out of the cabin with his two revolvers in each hand. “They had something of mine, my guns.”

Arthur stared back in disgust in silence. Micah spearheaded into battle, the pair of revolvers twisting and turning and firing like rain.

That’s when Arthur sensed it – a shiver went down his spine as an aura of bloodlust drew close.

He quickly turned back to see where it came from, only to find Charlotte aiming at the direction of Micah. He had no time to tell her to stand down, only to slap the barrel away as she took her shot, missing just inches from his head and landing directly on another poor folk’s chest.

“Watch where you’re aiming at!” Micah shrieked as he felt the bullet nearly graze his ear. “Fuckin’ women…”

As Micah continued his onslaught, Arthur kept her on his sight with widened eyes. Lips still pursed under the bandana he wore, he fixed his eyes to her as her own pupils burned with an intense hatred. He squeezed her trembling wrists and maintained his eye contact in the hopes of calming her down. She gave in in mere seconds, but under the rain of fire it felt longer than that.

When all the surrounding lawmen and armed citizens plummeted to the ground, Arthur pulled her to the horses, taking the rifle away from her for good. She silently climbed her horse without protest.

He couldn’t get it out of his head once they got up and left. After finishing off a couple of pursuers, they were finally in the clear. He didn’t know where to start – to complain to Micah as to why he had to give them a joyride around town shooting the whole place up, or to confront Charlotte, whose current demeanor still bridled his thoughts in a manner that disturbed him.

He didn’t remember much from Micah’s conversation as they parted ways. Charlotte was in his mind that entire time. Micah left, but not before talking smack at Charlotte’s skills, even though all this time she was performing well above his expectations. At the very least, he was relieved to see that Micah wasn’t going to head back to camp so soon, not when Charlotte has to go back as well.

The jarring silence between them prompted Arthur to go down from his horse and approach her.

“Come on,” he told her. She took his hand and followed. He guided her to a small platform of rocks, and she understood his intentions. She sat down quietly. The adrenaline had almost fully drained from her face, leaving behind hollow eyes. He curled his arms around his chest.

"You wanna talk about it?”

She didn’t answer.

“Did you… Did you know Micah?”

Her mouth was still zipped shut, and whatever secrets they hold may never be revealed to him.

He was expecting to be irritated, but to his surprise, he could only be concerned. He tugged at his collar and sat down beside her. He placed her hand into his palm.

“I don’t want to force you to say anything you don’t want to.”

She responded for the first time these past moments, but not with the familiar voice that he yearned for. She leaned her head towards him, letting her muddled hair droop over his shoulders.

She swallowed before she finally spoke a word. “You should’ve shot me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You saw me, trying to kill him. I was betraying the gang.”

“You weren’t,” Arthur said, maintaining his hold on her hand. “When you’re ready, you can talk to me ‘bout it.”

“I won’t ever be,” she told him.

“You will, you won’t, none of that matters,” he soothed. “Don’t let it bother you,” he said, caressing her hair and pulling her close to his chest.

They spent much of that time, watching the evening sun crash into the Earth. For this occasion, time was irrelevant, and he could feel the weight off his shoulders being lifted. There was no gang, no trouble, no gun smoke; it was just a long, comforting touch of another. It reminded him of a time long before, where life was much simpler than it was now.

He never wanted it to end, but he was certain it will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking a while, I'm going to be dreadfully busy soon and so chapters might take a week at most now. I also made a mistake on thinking Charlotte was from New York, but she's actually from Chicago! I edited those parts out already a couple of days ago, but just a reminder in case.
> 
> I think my writing's getting rustier the more I dive into the fic, so I apologize for that. I'll try to read up and get better at it, even if I have to think of looking at my old fics from the other website... Ugh.
> 
> Again, thank you for the kind comments and kudos. Hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. I'll be placing the notes at the end now, as I think they're less jarring that way.


	5. American values

Having limitless knowledge was supposed to be freeing, unbound by the chains of indifference and mediocrity. However, the same knowledge had unleashed a stranglehold upon her, trapping her as a bystander in the face of adversity.

To have wisdom is more of a curse than a blessing to Charlotte, and it was something she was familiar with long before she even dove into the past in the first place. Besides learning the tricks of the trade to amass better fortune, she was also taught about history, and of arts and sciences. She was aware of the inner workings of society around it, and how it keeps those most unfortunate at bay and damned into a dogmatic sense of servitude to the elite above them, the same elite where she placed a name for herself on.

Now, she was still a part of those elite, not of class or wealth, but of fate.

Having knowledge of the future through Arthur’s journal and John and Jack’s stories is something she never expected to have, but it was welcome nonetheless. Still, to hold back her temptations to share such information was a difficult dilemma. On top of the idea that none of them would really believe her, she would have risked being labeled as a lunatic and be driven away from the gang.

So far, she tried to change things on her own subtle way. Giving money to Thomas Downes was, in her mind, foolproof, and it had certainly helped prevent Arthur’s encounter with the man that got him sick in the first place. It’s not a happy ending after that though, because now his life will still continue on like a blur, instead of like a clear reflection of water that he had when he was ill. Dutch may still eventually get Arthur killed one way or another, and there is no concrete and reliable process to modify the mind of a madman.

Micah was still here, alive and well. She doesn’t know to feel regret on either the fact that she didn’t shoot him, or that she tried to shoot him. Perhaps she could have ignored Arthur and fulfilled the deed much to his dismay, but when his eyes met hers filled with pity and distress, her arms faltered underneath his. As much as it may give her uneasiness leaving the rat alive, maybe there was a chance Micah could change like Arthur did.

_"If… If you need protectin’, I’ll keep him away from you. I don’t know much about you and him, but I ain’t gonna pry.”_

_I’m the one doing the protecting_ , she thought at that time.

It was strange as to how a built, burly man such as him would allow her to stay by his side for what seemed to be an hour, just resting her head on his broad shoulders and his rigid chest. She basked in his warmth, a desirable heat compared to that of the blood rushing to her head and ears flaring as she held Micah at gunpoint. The beat of his heart was steady and calm, like a peaceful mantra wiping away the rage that consumed her, and his deep, husky voice was just tenderly whispering into her ear, keeping her from breaking down in front of him. To her, there was no end to the many things she adores about Arthur, and he surprised her as much as she surprised him every single day.

She had almost forgotten what it was like, being close to someone. Spending years in isolation should have numbed her from these pleasures, but it never did.

Most of her strength had already faded, and she used its last ounce to abruptly bring herself out of his embrace, with shame still evident in her face, and leave him where he sat. She grimly thought it would have been far better if he had shot her in the first place. She rode away leaving the man in confusion. Still, she finds herself coming back to camp, to continue things as the way they were before.

When he got back after her, Arthur acted like as if none of that happened. He still approached her with his usual chatter about her work, and went about on his business as usual. He hasn’t brought her to another job of his since then, but it was for the best. As much as she wanted to, she would not be able to stomach robbing or killing more people than she already did. She could gun down people trying to kill her, but threatening innocent people out of their pockets of cash and jewelry? She would be as intimidating as a fawn, ever innocent at any of its endeavors.

Arthur kept to his word. He was rather quick to pull her away when Micah approaches. She wanted to tell him that it was unnecessary, but she was enthralled by how protective he was to her, so she never got around to. Although, it could be that he’s really protecting Micah from her, she thought.

“Are you all packed up, Mrs. Balfour?” Mary-Beth asked.

“Please, call me Charlotte,” she said to the fair-haired girl. “I didn’t really have much to begin with, so I’m all set.”

Karen joined in, carrying a large bundle of clothes. “Where should I put this?”

“Miss Grimshaw said over there, by the boxes.”

“But those look like they’ve gone through the mud,” Karen complained.

“Can’t really do nothing about it. We’ll just have to wash them again once we get to the new camp.”

Karen sighed. “Well, at least Mrs. Balfour here will be doing most of the work…”

“Karen!”

Charlotte smiled at the thought. “It’s okay, Mary-Beth. I mean, I’ve only been here for a few weeks. Least I could do is to make myself useful.”

Mary-Beth threw a grin at her. “You’re always so polite, Charlotte. No wonder Arthur’s got his eye on you.”

“W-what?”

She snickered. “I mean, he’s always talking to you, and even took you out for a job. He never does that with any one of us. You, though, he looks at you rather fondly.”

She tried to laugh out her flushed cheeks, but couldn’t. “No, I don’t think that way. I’m sure he’s just looking out for his new recruit. Someone from the city like me is bound to get into trouble at some point out here.”

Karen was shaking the mud off her foot when she overheard the conversation. “I’m kinda jealous, you know. I’ve been dyin’ to ask one of the men to take me out on a job but seems like nobody wants to.”

“I’m sure they will find you something to do soon enough, Miss Jones,” Charlotte assured her.

“I’m glad you didn’t turn out like Miss O’Shea over there. Anyway, Miss Grimshaw’s comin’, best we start pretending we’re working.”

They heard the shrillness of her voice before she even got there. “Karen! I told you to get Mr. Morgan’s tent ready, it doesn’t look at all ready,” she scolded, pointing at the point of interest with an open hand.

“I will get around it, Miss Grimshaw. I just packed up all the clothes like you ask me to.”

Miss Grimshaw was still quite upset, but it was none too unfamiliar for the likes of Charlotte. “Go assist Mr. Strauss then, he still can’t walk very well on his leg, so make sure all the tonics get stacked up nicely.”

Charlotte’s heart almost jumped when Miss Grimshaw went on to face her. “Mrs. Balfour, if it isn’t any trouble, could you please go and pack some of Mr. Morgan’s things?”

Karen rolled her eyes at the sudden shift in her tone and went on her way.

Charlotte nodded. “Sure thing, Miss Grimshaw. Not a problem at all.”

“Thank you dear.” Charlotte was already stepping away when she heard her rambling on poor, innocent Mary-Beth.

Come to think of it, Charlotte had never gotten a chance to visit Arthur’s tent before. She only had glimpses of it from afar, at times even sees him sleeping soundly with a slight snore. He never rolled down the sheets for privacy, and always kept most of his possessions on a table right beside it.

Now that she was this close, the pictures stuck on the side of the wagon and the frames above the table by the bed were clear to her now. She was captivated at how young they all looked in one of the photos, and how adorable it was for Arthur to have hung up a picture of what seemed to be his dog alongside it. She grew curious looking at a man, who she assumed was his father, wearing his hat in what seemed to be a mugshot photo of him.

By the bed, she got a closer look at the preserved flower in the jar that reminded him of his mother as Mary-Beth had told her. She took a peek at the newspaper scrap that detailed what looked to be Arthur’s very first high stakes bank robbery. She was surprised to see that the gang began for a noble cause, but as her eyes swept through the camp that was in disarray as everyone scrambled to pack for moving, she wondered where and how it went all wrong. She placed it back beside the photo of Mary, who she had grown to know from Arthur’s old journal. He always loved her, and always will. She was surprised she was disappointed at the thought, for all she really wanted was him to be happy. Being together with someone who he truly cares for would be the life he would have always wanted and a life for him she set her sights towards.

She was holding up the frame of another, older looking woman when she heard footsteps fast approaching.

“You helping pack my stuff up?” Arthur asked her.

“Yes, Miss Grimshaw told me so,” she explained as she traced the wooden edges of the frame. “Is this your mother?”

He grabbed the jar of the flower she recently observed and playfully juggled it with both hands. “Yep. I don’t remember her much, ‘cause she died when I was real young.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said.

“It’s nothin’. Maybe it would’ve been better that way, else, she would’ve had to put up with that no good bastard.”

He placed the jar back so Charlotte could place it into one of the boxes. “I’m sorry ‘bout havin’ to move and all. I know you like the place.”

“Remember, Arthur. I’m one of you now. Even if we have to move further into unknown territory, I’ll be moving alongside all of you.”

“I know. It’s just…” he paused, and tried to change the subject. “Does Micah bother you when I’m not around? ‘Cause if he does, just tell me, I’m gonna make sure-“

“It’s okay, Arthur. That man doesn’t perturb me one bit.”

Dutch called for him from the distance. “Arthur! Come here!”

“I have to go,” he said. “Dutch is probably gonna make me look for another camp we can settle on. I’ll try to find somewhere you might like.”

“I’m sure you will,” she replied with a curve on her lips.

“Okay, I’ll catch you later then.”

She watched him walking back to Dutch, keeping faith to a man that will bring his end.

* * *

 

A time traveler’s worst fear never crossed Charlotte mind until now. When they journeyed through the heartlands and found themselves on a shore by a large lake called Clemen’s Point, everything was still falling into place as if it was meant to be. Destiny unraveled itself despite her intrusion, and doubts filled her mind, thinking that fate is absolute. It went exactly about how Arthur’s journal detailed it to be. He came back to camp with a deputy badge pinned on his chest. Many people egged him on it, except for her. It frightened her.

She spent time contemplating her next move, wondering what must be done to make sure Arthur and John would deviate from the line that it still latches on. Watching the splatter of fish across the surface of the water, just dancing the day away helped clear most of the worries that clouded her thoughts. It had not been long since she heeded the songs that a merry group of men indulged themselves on a small boat, just pounding through the serenity with little care in the world. When the boat soon floated ashore, the three men of varying expressions grew quiet, drawing the small fish they spooked back into her periphery. These men certainly had a history, one that she may never comprehend, and one that she may never pierce through its thick, sturdy walls. But it was one mystery she needed solving, one bond that needs dissecting in its purest form in order to understand why Arthur would not let go of them.

Soon enough, the pitter patters were replaced by footsteps along the worn, wooden boards of the old dock. Her eyes drifted like fish to a piece of bait to the hulking man beside her, his pair of large, veiny hands hooked on his gun belt.

“There ain’t no cliff to look over now, but I’m hopin’ the lake’s a nice view for you.”

She adjusted the bangs drooping on her forehead, and managed to get a more open view of the surroundings. Although in reality, she was really trying to snatch a better look at the handsome man beside her.  He was right. It was indeed a place of some unparalleled beauty. The yellow monochrome veneer accentuated the lake’s muddy surface reflecting off the rays of the sun.

“The lake’s not as clear as the streams near Horseshoe Overlook for sure, but it has its merits. Maybe I could try my hand at fishing now, like you three just did,” Charlotte said.

“Well, fishin’ is kinda boring. Not much to do but wait until somethin’ takes a bite.”

“But when they do, I suppose it’s a cause for a celebration of horrible singing?“

“Damn, you heard that?” He said, letting out a soft chortle.

“My ears are as sharp as a group of three mariners, for sure,” she joked, returning the light mood.

She bit her lip, unsure if it was the right time to confront him about it, but she did so anyway. “What do you think about Dutch?”

“More questions, huh?” Arthur said with snide.

“I do admit I am a curious woman, but not of malicious intent, I assure you.”

“How ‘bout I ask a question first, then I could go and answer one back for you?”

“Sounds fair enough,” she said, bobbing her head in agreement.

“Alright then,” he said, squeezing the scruff on his chin. “How’d you learn to shoot?”

“Hmm. I suppose that much I can tell you,” she teased. “A man I admired taught me the gist of it, but to be quite frank, I was not much of an expert at the get go. But spend enough years just reading books and you’re bound to get bored sometime. It just so happens that sharpshooting is quite the practical pastime.”

“Who’s that man you’re talkin’ bout?”

She waved her index finger at him. “You’re breaking the rules, Mr. Morgan. My question is the same as before.”

“Heh, you’re right. Okay then… Dutch… Well, there ain’t much to say. He’s like a father to me, I guess, since he took me in after my real father got the noose. He’s our leader, he tells us what to do, and we follow. “

“Well that’s unhelpful; you just told me a lot of things I already know. Tell me something I don’t.”

“Too late ‘bout that, I already answered. You should’ve added it in the conditions, then,” Arthur said, smirking. “My turn now.”

He scratched his head, thinking of a good question to ask, not that he already had so many opportunities before to initiate them.

“ What really brought you out here, riding with us?”

She was somewhat taken aback, as if Arthur opened a box of secrets he should have never brought up.

“I…”

“Your husband isn’t tryin’ to kill you, if he does exist,” he said with skepticism. “I can see it. Did you… Did you come here for Micah? Is that it? To get revenge? Revenge is a-”

“-fool’s game,” she interrupted and breathed out a sigh. “I know.”

That’s what Arthur told John, and what John told her, and the message has now come full circle.

“I’m…. I’m not supposed to tell you. I can’t.”

“If you just let me know, I can do somethin’ ‘bout it. You just gotta tell me.”

She tried so hard not to answer, but the tint of his eyes lured her into compliance. The temptation was too strong, too intense to fight away.

“You will be betrayed, Arthur,” she croaked.

It was as if a heavy weight has been lifted off her chest when the words left her mouth.

He looked away, and then shifted his focus on the water behind her. “I’ve… I’ve always known that bastard was up to somethin’. But you have my word. I’ll be ready for ‘im, when he does.”

She held her tongue back, desperately trying not to snap. “It’s not just him, Arthur.”

He looked at her with an incredulous expression on his face. “What do you mean?”

“All of this, this gang you talk about,” she said, clenching her fists, “it will be the end, not only for you, but for John’s family too.”

He grew silent. The shadows underneath his hat thickened that it hid his bluegreen eyes like a mask.  She could only see the scruff around his mouth, unwavering in the fit of their conversation.

“Arthur!” another voice joined in, cutting through the tension between them. Abigail stopped in her tracks when she noticed Charlotte was alongside him. “I’m sorry, was I interrupting something?”

“It’s… It’s okay,” Arthur exclaimed. “What is it?”

“Hosea and John are looking for you. Somethin’ to do with all that moonshine you brought back to camp some time ago.”

“Sure,” he said, breathing another one of his iconic sighs, and faced Charlotte, his eyes now a clear pit of gloom. “We’ll… We’ll talk more about this later, alright?”

She nodded. She was too bent on resisting the urge to avert her gaze, hoping the fire in her eyes would knock sense into him, but it was naïve to think it would.

Abigail was far too keen on letting what transpired slide. “You okay, Charlotte?” she asked her when Arthur had finally left.

“No trouble at all,” she reassured her.

She gathered her thoughts, trying to break away from the impasse that she had brought herself upon.

“Micah, huh?”

The mention of the name made her turn her head to the direction of the noise. Her yellow shirt and long, braided blonde hair startled her, as if she was a whole different woman.

“Mrs. Adler…”

“I’ve always known that snake was up to somethin’,” she remarked. “You knew him?”

Her lips remained pursed, unsure of how much she should tell her.

“Don’t worry then, Mrs. Balfour. I’ll keep an eye on that cretin and shoot him when he tries anythin’.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Adler, but I don’t think that will be necessary. I’m sure Arthur could handle it.”

She cocked the rifle in her hands. “You going to be okay?”

“I should be saying that to you,” Charlotte replied.

“You and Abigail helped me a lot… I owe you two. You’re the only people in this camp who understood what I’m goin’ through, and I’ll do anything for the both of you.”

“I’ve… I’ve done nothing to deserve that sort of kindness from you,” Charlotte said.

Abigail planted a hand on her shoulder. “You did. You’ve always watched over her like I did.”

“That you was,” Sadie seconded. “All them other folks in camp just go to me and tell me I should move on, as if it’s somethin’ easy to do… But then you come along and know exactly just what to say to me as if you’ve gone through what I’ve been through, and I thank you for that.”

Of course she knew. Charlotte had been a widow before, dangling in the same rough spot that Sadie had gone through. Telling someone who has just lost their beloved to forget all about their loss is nothing but crass and insensitive. It wasn’t her or Abigail that pushed her to change. Nothing else really broke Sadie out of her drivel until Arthur took her out of the camp for the first time, where she came back revived and renewed. The gun smoke that covered her scent was still fresh then – she had been shooting, but nobody dared ask her what she just killed, and so only Arthur knew about it.

“Just holler if you need anythin’,” Sadie told her.

She would have, but all this talking had tired her to the end of her wit. She bowed her head, acknowledging her help, however superfluous it was, and tried her best to find another place to wallow in her thoughts for a while.

Willard was chewing on a stack of hay, as would any living, breathing animal do. His teeth crumpled the strings like noodles, and its snout wrinkled like no tomorrow. She almost envied how happy must life be to be a simple horse, gorging on tasteless cuisine and not have a worry in his world.  She patted his side and felt the hide shake crow from its toughness as her hands floated above it. From there, she caught Kieran shooting a glance towards her, and the boy quickly tilted his head away, too late for her not to notice. Sean took a dislike to it, glaring at Kieran with a combined concerned and disgusted look on his eyes, scaring the boy into submission.

From the depths of the forest beyond them, just meters away from where she stood, a lone man wandered out of the shade. The first thing she recognized was the long scars that enveloped his right cheek, like a permanent blotch on his rugged features. They looked so fresh—a contrast to the dry ones she had always observed. She still had a difficult time believing this young man was John; a man who more or less still acts like a boy. He avoided Abigail and Jack like a plague, ever elusive to the family life that his older version gushed and took pride in.

“O’Driscoll boy’s got his eye on you, seems like.”

If there was one thing she desired there and then, it was to pull him into her arms into a tight hug, like the many times she had done before when John visited her cabin back at Willard’s Rest. Unlike his older self who was clung to her in happiness in remembering the same man they both admired, this John was fairly different. He was distant and cold, ever an enigma on his motivations.

“Why would you care all of a sudden?”

“I’ve always cared. Arthur told me to watch over you when he ain’t around camp.”

“You could have told me so.”

“Well, last I heard, watchin’ over someone doesn’t involve a mouth.”

Same old John, as always.

“You know that… I’ve known Arthur for a long time right? And I know trouble when I see it. He wasn’t bein’ himself when he was talkin’ to Hosea.”

She was about to answer him, but he quickly spat out a few more words before she could do so. “Kinda hopin’ he just saw through your act.”

She glared at him. “Excuse me?”

“I may be an idiot Mrs. Balfour, but I ain’t blind. You put up a pretty convincing act around these folks, but I know you don’t care nothin’ ‘bout everyone else but him, along with Abigail and Jack.”

She could neither look away nor retain eye contact, constantly darting her glance to and fro to the man and to the ground beneath them. He managed to conjure a weapon she cannot defend herself from.

“Must be easy. Polite society’s all about bein’ polite. Even if you don’t really mean to.”

She sighed. “What are you going to do about it?”

He laughed. “Nothin’. Arthur knows it too, you know. He ain’t as dumb as he looks. He’s a sensitive feller, that one.”

“He sure is,” she agreed.

“Can’t toy with a man’s emotions like that. Speak your mind. Stop making him worry.”

“I’ll… I’ll try.”

He tipped his hat. “I know you will.”

John was right. She was nothing more than a plastic doll at this point. In fact, she had pretty much been one since forever. All of those years keeping her thoughts and emotions in check, and concealing the truth with a farce that can surely fool many—she never got to remove that odd habit of hers, not when she spent the remaining years of her previous life living in isolation.

After hearing from the others that Arthur was on a job, she wanted to settle things, if only just to put her—and especially his—mind at ease. She was already close by the town of Rhodes when she spotted a wagon full of bottles, with Hosea and a very grumpy Arthur holding the reins. He stopped the wagon when Hosea spotted her.

“Oh, hello there Charlotte. You aren’t goin’ into town, are you?” Hosea greeted.

“Well, I was kinda hoping to speak with him,” she said, pointing to the other cowboy. She spotted his cheeks glowing into a rosy pink, and she grew curious as to what made him feel that way.

“I’m sure you do, but we’re on a job here missy. While you’re here, why not join us?”

Arthur nearly went on a rant, but his voice slithered into a soft purr. “Hosea, please no…”

“Oh come on now Arthur, it’s just a simple job. Things might get messy in there but she’ll complete our act pretty convincingly.”

“Act?” she said with excitement in her tone.

“Why yes, dear.”

“I said I ain’t playin’ no dress up. _Especially_ not while she’s around.”

She could feel the air from her lungs blasting through her nostrils just as he slurred those words.

“Oh come on. I’m the clown, and you’re idiot. Just… look… sad, and keep quiet. Even you can do that Arthur.”

“Do I have to?” he protested, but Hosea was quick to swipe away the hat from his head and replace it with a new, more goofy looking one.

“Put this hat on.” He pulled something from his pocket and forced it into Arthur’s lips. “Smoke this pipe. Bring your lip forward, just a bit… squint... Oh perfect.”

Charlotte tried her best to hold her laugh, but his disguise was all too silly to bear. “You look like a true southerner there, Arthur.”

“And what about you? And her?”

“Oh shh. You can’t speak. You’re turned idiot. Now then.“ Hosea cleared his throat and turned to Charlotte before continuing. ”You haven’t been to Rhodes before have you?”

“I haven’t, why?”

“Well, my dear sister Meredith, things might get messy. Might wanna stay out of town for a while after this.”  He handed her a small straw hat and a dirty apron to complete her look, and she had as much enthusiasm to wear them. “Why thank you, these are wonderful… mister—”

“Melvin! Seems you have forgotten my name already, ol’ Meredith likes to forget things, don’t you?”

He faced Arthur again with a sly grin on his face. “And you, my brother Fenton… Quite broke poor mammy’s heart!”

He growled in gripe, but Hosea was too quick for him. “There there, Fenton, there there. Don’t get mad now. Now dear sister, let’s ride into town and make sure this boy’s all soured up.”

She wasn’t used to Arthur being this silent, not especially on the way to their destination. When they arrived, the now permanently grumpy man climbed down with long strides, expressing his displeasure to all of this, yet with his silence still behind him.

“Is Arthur always like this when you’re both on a job, Hosea?”

Hosea could almost sense the grunts from Arthur from the front of the wagon before he answered her. “Who is this Hosea you are talking about, Meredith? Have you lost your memory again, dear oh dear.”

“O-oh,” she said, snickering and joining in the act. “I’m sorry Melvin, I am dreadfully forgetful.”

“Oh who wouldn’t be forgetful, with Fenton around and all. Stay calm now brother, for momma, she loved you so… Just a shame you had to strangle her in a rage and traumatize our sister Meredith here to forgetfulness.”

Hosea’s scheme was unlike anything she could ever come up with, and it gave color to the once bland realities ahead of her. She watched him work his magic that was in a similar vein to what she had done before to fool those agents back at her home.

Melvin introduced the crowd to them as his siblings, almost in a very compelling overtone that hardly made it suspicious. Fenton was still quiet and likely fuming at the embarrassment he had to endure not only in front of these people but also in front of her. Next thing Meredith knew, she found herself taking some pints off the bar to the different tables scattered around the saloon.

Arthur was a natural barista, pouring drinks and setting aside bottles like a madman. She did a pretty piss poor job on her own, barely just getting the glasses across the tables while dodging and fumbling through the horde of men that surrounded them.

Some of the men had already started showing signs of haphazard drunkenness. Soon, she found herself captured in the arms of a man she didn’t know, stuck in a drunken stupor.

“Hey there, beautiful,” the surly voice told her. “Give a man some company, will ya?”

“Sir please… No…” She tried to struggle out of his grasp to no avail. His breath stunk from the moonshine and crept close to her face, too uncomfortable to take on her own.

There was a loud crash, and the whole saloon nearly went silent. She heard light taps of liquid from the counter that is far easier to hear in the peace, with a visibly agitated Arthur pulling off a deathly stare towards the man who had upset her. She saw a mix of blood and booze dripping from his hands, with the glass shards just sprawled right below it.

Hosea was quick to act, gently pushing the man off of her body. “Now now, dear sir, best not to do anything foolish now. Remember, you don’t want Fenton to be angry. Remember what he did to our mammy.”

His eyes widened in fear, sobering him instantly. “Y-yes. S-sorry Fenton! I don’t mean nothin’, I promise!”

Arthur didn’t stop the intimidation, which led the man to scamper away in fear of his own safety. What came next was a gentle choir of laughs and giggles from the rest of the crowd, and shared praise to dear old Fenton who drove away the troublemaker. She composed herself, dusting off her apron and adjusting her clothes, and sent a gentle nod to Arthur in gratitude which he gladly returned with relief.

Charlotte wished the night would continue on uneventful, but their revelry was barged in by a couple of men with rifles in their hands. She heard of the Lemoyne Raiders—always up to no good here in the south, and stuck in a past that many had already abandoned. If she had to shoot them, she wouldn’t have minded it at all.

Things got heated quickly, and from the looks of it, things weren’t going to go well when Hosea’s talks failed to calm them down. Arthur gestured to her, coaxing her to run towards him and take cover under the bar as the first shots went flying. She drew out her pistol and returned fire, hitting a few men before pushing Arthur to move when Hosea fled upstairs. She managed to save Hosea in a pinch, and Arthur took care of the rest with a few quick clicks of his revolver.

She screamed when Hosea fell down the balcony onto their wagon below, but to her relief he had managed to fend off the man on top of him with a quick bullet to the gut.

“Come on, we have to jump.”

 Before she could even say a word, Arthur lifted her off the ground with his arms curled around her back and legs. He jumped down from the balcony and landed on his two feet with a loud thud on the wooden wagon, now nearly emptied of its contents thanks to the long drinking session Hosea initiated save for a few casks. The evening sun had already been replaced by the darkness of the night, making it harder for any of them to see if any more stragglers were there to shoot at them. Charlotte whistled for Willard and it galloped to them in an instant. She hopped on, riding beside the two in a slow and very vulnerable wagon.

Just when they thought they were out of the woodworks, more of them opened fire. Charlotte covered the group from any flanks while Arthur took care of any stragglers. Hosea was visibly impressed. “Where the hell did you get this woman from, Arthur? She’s a real good shot!”

“Just shut your trap and keep us on the road!”

They were just a few paces off their camp when their enemies halted their pursuit, as the incoming train they managed to beat across had given them enough time to put some distance between them. The gun slinging duo left an awful mark on their operations, leaving enough of them dead to wonder if this silly fight over the stolen moonshine was even worth it. Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief upon learning everyone made it out intact, and she could almost curse at how lucky they were making it out unscathed after wading through a sea of bullets.

As the two men pondered whether or not they were set up by the very person that led them on to this wild goose chase, Charlotte peeled the apron off and wiped the sweat off her brow. Her heart was still pumping, and she was almost at a daze from all the moving and shooting they had to do.

“You alright there, Charlotte?”

“That was… something,” she uttered.

“Why don’t you invite her out on a job more often, Arthur? Keepin’ her a secret from us, were ya?”

“She wasn’t supposed to be on this goddamn job,” he snapped at the older man. “She could’ve gotten killed.”

“I think she managed quite well by herself, no?”

“She—She did, but…”

“Hush, no buts. If she can do whatever she wants, and if she’s willing to shoot up another band of ignorant folks, I’m all up for it.”

Charlotte complied with enthusiasm. “I wouldn’t mind getting my hands dirty once in a while, and I don’t mean through all the cleaning I go through.”

Arthur sighed. “Fine. But she can’t go on any job I won’t be on.”

“If you care about her that much, then sure,” Hosea compromised. “For now, let me go give old Mrs. Braithwaite some of this moonshine as… well… let’s call it a peace offering.”

“Sure.”

Hosea raised his voice, mimicking his old persona Melvin once again much to the chagrin of Charlotte. “That was fun, Fenton! We’ll make an actor of you yet!”

Arthur unsuccessfully tried to hide his smile as Hosea rolled away. “I’ll go speak to Dutch then, and bring this lady home.”

They were all alone, covered under the moonlight. The ruins of the old garrison they stumbled upon were nothing short of majesty. Blooming white flowers surrounded the abandoned grounds, creating a fervent ambiance of nature’s victory over the aftermath of war.

She climbed down her horse and led him through his reins. He caught up to Arthur who was quite in a hurry to get back to camp. She broke the silence just as easily as she did before. “It was fun,” she remarked.

“It sure is,” he said. The man was tired and weary, but she wanted to speak to him more.

“Your hand.”

He lifted it, almost forgetting about his injury he brashly dealt on himself. It was still bleeding from the cuts, and the sting returned just as he was reminded of it again. Charlotte pulled off a bandage from her bag and gently wrapped it around the wound, enclosing it with a soft peck of her lips. “Thank you, Arthur.”

He was flustered, as always. “It was… It was nothin’. Just looking out for you ‘n all.”

“You and Hosea have quite a history.”

“We do, but it’s nothin’ you should be concerned about.”

She softly smirked back at him. “I know, and I won’t pry.”

“So you gonna stop asking questions from now on?”

She placed a finger on her temple, mocking him. “Maybe, but that window’s still open.”

“And now it’s closed,” he ridiculed.

“Well, would this change your mind?” She pulled out a bottle from her bag and presented it to him—it was an expensive brand of rum that she managed to snag off a shelf back in the Rhodes saloon while chaos was afoot. He took the bottle from her hands and held it closer to his eyes just so he could believe what he was seeing was real. When she took out another bottle of the same brand, it cemented Arthur’s beliefs.

“Goddamn, did you pay for these?”

“I sort of borrowed it off of the saloon while nobody was looking. I mean, I don’t think they’ll be suspicious losing this after all that commotion.”

He slapped her back, a little too rough that it startled her, but she didn’t want to break his mood. The man couldn’t stop grinning. Arthur gracefully opened the bottles with his knife and handed the other to her. “You did a real good job.”

They managed to find a quaint spot to finish their drinks, remnants of a stone wall now crumbled into a tiny block that was comfortable to sit on. Arthur winced at his first gulp, feeling the strength of the booze just overwhelm him. Tiny hands gripped the other bottle, hesitant to take a sip, and Arthur noticed it.

“I think I have an answer for your question now,” she told him.

“I’m all ears,” he said, listening intently.

“To begin with, I’ve spent many nights with a glass in my hand. My father… He had always told me to keep a straight face, maintain eye contact, laugh at any attempt of humor, and entertain the guests through any front possible.”

She played with the bottle in her hand, and finally took a sip.

“I was daddy’s little girl, the one that always smiles even as the awkwardness erupts, or arguments rise. I was a trophy to be shown around, to be marveled and consecrated like a precious plastic doll. I was expected to strut around with this long, uncomfortable dress, and keep my hair down so the nasty men could admire the gentle locks of my hair.”

Arthur’s eyes was filled with pity, and she didn’t like it.

“I’ve spent all my life pretending someone I wasn’t. And… I just got tired of it all, really. A woman like me can only take so much before everything becomes stale, monotonous, or just simply boring. It was an easy life, for sure. I had plenty to eat and drink, I didn’t have to keep an eye open at night, sleeping soundly on a comfortable mattress without a care in the world. Money was like water, a never ending stream, and I could get anything I want. But an easy life is a life of the mundane, a tactless existence.”

“So… you came to us, to escape all that?” Arthur followed. “You gave up that life, just to live a dangerous life like this?”

“Not at all, actually,” she said honestly. “My husband, Cal, he had this idea of going out here and live a life on our own. Not with our parent’s gifts and never ending pressures. Just us, under the stars, sipping on homemade wine and enjoying the night sky.”

“So, he does exist?”

“He does.” She swallowed. “He… died. Mauled by a bear, and little old clueless me could do nothing to stop it. With him gone, I was certain I was dead. Didn’t know how to hunt, or to shoot, or even defend myself. Didn’t know how to skin a simple rabbit.”

“But you’re still here. You’re with us. And you know all about shootin’ and hunting,” Arthur told her at the peak of his curiosity.

“Yes, because someone helped me.”

“The man you admired?”

“Yes, the man I’ve long admired. I was never one to entwine myself in many relationships save for my husband Cal, but being around him was different. Never have I ever felt so genuine, like the disguise I’ve worn for so long was stripped from me bare. Nothing but truth would pour out from me when he was there. But who wouldn’t? He caught me at my most vulnerable, a damsel in distress, crying over a week old mound of my departed husband’s. Any other person would have taken that opportunity to take advantage of me, but he didn’t. He listened. It was as if he wept as I wept, suffered as I suffered. He was like no other I’ve ever seen.”

“That… doesn’t sound like admiration to me at all,” Arthur told her.

“How so?”

“Well, the way you talk about ‘im… Seems like you’re in love with that feller.”

She couldn’t hide the growing redness in her cheeks. “Oh, oh no, it’s not that…”

“Well, deny it all you want, but I know one when I see one,” he teased. “But… That’s nice, you know? Findin’ someone like that.”

His gravelly tone soothed her. “It sure is.”

“So, he’s the person responsible for makin’ you ride with us all the way out here, then?”

She did not want to lie anymore. “Yes, he was.”

“Then whoever he is, I’m sure he knows that me, and John, and Abigail and Jack too, well, we’re part of this bunch through and through. We don’t leave no one behind.”

“You’re right,” she said forlornly.

Sean, Kieran, Lenny, Hosea, and Molly—five names on the top of her head that she could remember seeing in Arthur’s journal, all now real and alive just like her husband was. She had read many a text, but none so more emotional than Arthur’s writing towards these fallen brethren. Perhaps she could never get a clear grasp of Arthur’s value of them, but in reality, there never really was a need to.

She only felt grief once, and it felt like dying, but him… There was a sadness in his eyes that had seen that same death and loss before. He’s been through so much of it, and there was many more to come, and she wondered how he could take all of it in, to be able to absorb such an exorbitant amount of misery and still be left standing. Arthur’s writing said it all—the deterioration of his spirit, the fading of his remaining joy, all spiraling into the abyss as the journal went on and on and on.

Yet in the middle of it all, he stood up. He helped others like her, who was at a loss, who was at their wit’s end. He redeemed himself before the end, even as the world crashed down around him. He has done so much bad things in life, but a man like him did not deserve such a tragic ending. He was real, so real, and she was not, and now she wishes to be.

She accepted the greed that began to consume her—the desire to save all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello once again! First off, I'd like to apologize for taking this long to send out this chapter. A really bad case of writer's block and university work certainly stumped me for quite a while, and I had to put this fic at the back of my mind for the whole week. 
> 
> Thank you again for the comments, and I'm glad those who are stumbling on this fic for the first time are enjoying it, even though the writing is bad at times. I'm still trying to grasp some better writing styles, so hopefully these will read well and sufficiently. Enjoy!


	6. Words on a paper bill

Arthur Morgan had never dreamed since they left Blackwater. Only blackness lied behind his eyelids, and only blackness remained as he drifts off into his slumber. He could not hear, smell, nor feel. Worst of all, he could not speak. Only fragments were left, of a time when his dreams were filled with the tranquility of nature, of grass and greens and mammals young and old. Gone were the days of blissful rest, of silly longing for a path once vivid, with what was left of the aftermath was a sense of impending doom.

Seeds of doubt had already been planted on his head. As they dangerously lurk closer into the affairs of two warring families, the more he saw the deception they have managed to inflict upon them. Dutch and the others still firmly believe they had the upper hand, and that they were the ones doing the deceiving. The evidence of the shrewdness was all far too encompassing, yet the others still dived deeper and deeper, and he could do nothing but follow them closer into the sinking hole.

Even then as they ambled closer to the abyss, he still found time to go for more extracurricular scores. One of which was a bank robbery that Bill, surprisingly, was able to come up with Karen’s help. He considered bringing Charlotte along for the ride, but she was in no place, nor standing to pull off a high stakes heist like that. He thought, for the most part, that she was not one that robbed out of avarice, only of necessity. She was innocent, so was Jack, so was Mary-Beth, so was Tilly, so was many of the other folk that maintained their acquaintance with the gang. And so the dirty work, the criminality, or most commonly known as the greatest of sins, is left imprinted on him, and the other broken men before him. He wanted to keep that innocence alive—an innocence that persisted within the company of demons, murderers and thieves and liars alike.

The night was still young, of drinks and merry gallivanting, but he had almost drifted off from his drunkenness if not for a voice jolting him awake.

“Should’ve brought me on that job, Arthur,” Javier said.

Arthur sniffled and wiped his nose. He cleared his throat as Javier watched him compose himself. “Don’t go complainin’ on me, Bill’s the one who headed the whole thing anyhow,” he explained.

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Oh, I ain’t jokin’. Well, I did end up decidin’ on what to do, so I dunno.”

“At least Bill’s enjoying all that attention,” Javier remarked, staring ahead at the scene. Arthur took a wistful glance at the plump bastard, extending an arm over Charlotte by the campfire. She was visibly uncomfortable sitting beside him, and he was quick to confront. He stood from his resting place and marched towards them in an instant.

“Don’t touch her,” Arthur snarled at the man, whose dulled eyes seemed to be shifting from one world to another.

“Why the hell do you care, Arthur?” Bill complained.

“I said what I said,” he growled.

Charlotte shifted and tossed away Bill’s arm from the back of her neck. “Come on you two, there’s no need to fight—“

“You think you’re so tough… eh, Morgan…?” Bill slurred. “I did this job. I made it work. But here comes ol’ Dutch talkin’ ‘bout how you did so well… And me?” He pointed at his chest. “Me? I’m just your poor ‘lil underling.”

“Dutch doesn’t know what he’s talkin’ ‘bout,” he replied. “You did good. But none of that got nothin’ to do with this.”

“You… Yer always … gloatin’ over this woman, huh…?

He wasn’t having any of it. “I’m surprised you can still string a full sentence, you damn fool.”

“And what are you gonna do about it?” Bill said, standing up and meeting him eye to eye. He turned away, but he could feel the others burying their glances on his menacing figure. It made him snap, pushing him to ball his hands into a fist and throw a punch onto Bill’s face, knocking the man into the ground. The curious eyes of those around him transformed into muffled gasps. Bill, sullen and bitter from the fall, recovered and threw his own punch, drawing blood from Arthur’s lips. Javier just barely managed to pull the injured cowboy back as Lenny and Charles locked Bill’s arms around his back to subdue him.

“What the hell are you two doing?” Dutch said, noticing the commotion. “You two just rob a bank and you’re both at each other’s throats.”

Arthur maintained his grumpy mug, a contrast to Bill’s apologetic expression to their leader.

Dutch shook his head and sighed. “Come on, Arthur. You’re killing me here. Don’t go picking fights around your own brothers.”

“If this idiot was a bit more respectful maybe I’d consider it.”

Charlotte barged in, the intent of de-escalation showing from her polite form.  “I’m sorry Dutch, there was just a misunderstanding. I’m sure Arthur’s also sorry about it.”

He glared at her. “I’m not—“

“Oh come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, pulling him away from the crowd.

She led him near a washing basin with a weak tug. It was fairly easy to break free, but he didn’t. Tiny hands scooped up a handful of water, most just drizzling over her fingers, and laced the cut on his lip with it. She gently traced the scruff around his small cut and ended it with a palm over his reddened cheeks. She looked at him directly in the eye. A vibrant green hue greeted him like a splash of nature. He had not noticed it before, not when he was too busy staring at the curves of her lips whenever he saw her.

“Not a week has passed since you’ve hurt your hand, yet you plunged yourself into another problem.”

Her fingers against his skin were warmer than the alcohol that shook his head.

“I can’t help it, you were in trouble,” he said, mouth moving on its own accord. The inhibitions within him were starting to unlatch.

“Bill’s just doing it to spite you, considering his… _preferred affiliations_ ,” she told him, holding back a snicker. “Even then, I would have just easily shoved off a drunkard like him. ”

He cupped her hand that was on his face with his own. There was a slight moment where he wanted to kiss it, to wrap it tightly, never letting it go. Yet, he set it down away from him. “Maybe.”

Her meekness showed she must have noticed his urges. She nudged his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“It’s too early,” he moaned. “I’m down for a couple more bottles.”

“After your fiasco? Surely not,” she said, talking him down. “I’ve seen you drunk out of your wits before. The singing. The horrible singing. You were quite adorable, for sure, but not one I’m eager to hear again so soon.”

“What? I’m a pretty good singer,” he mumbled in his intoxication. “I can show you. I’m—“

“No, nope. Not now.”

Charlotte was quite insistent, pulling him towards his tent. The world around him tilted and swerved as they went, with every step forward a quake and each turn of a head a maelstrom.  He was curious about her tug on his hand, firm and tight, but very weak, hiding under a façade of belligerence. He could have just as easily resisted her, pulling hard and throwing her back into him in an embrace. He wanted to feel her petite frame close to his chest, and bury his face on top of her jet black hair even if it smelled of hay and grass. He yearned of the thought of her gentle fingers brushing his back, tracing the most ticklish parts, with only their shared laughter to fill the silence.

Arthur shook his head, surprised by his sudden longing for her. He was unsure about his feelings, just as he was unsure about it many times before. It didn’t stop him to think it could happen, but doubts still filled his mind.

_Damn fool, she’ll never like you._

Even in his drunken state, he was certain of it. No woman would have him, for he was not the ideal man women craved for. Old, and ugly and scary, he would often repeat in his head. He always knew he was stupid to think he had another chance with Mary when she brought up business with him again, but he was an even bigger fool to think Charlotte was interested him. There was no place in that pleasant world for a man like him. He thought it was better that way. It was just what a bad man like him deserved.

Despite all that, Charlotte had him hanging on by a thread. She was unique, a lady of both profound innocence and pertinent maturity that none had ever shown. She didn’t end up in their gang as circumstance, no, but through her own, unknown purposes. Whatever they may be, perhaps he will never know, but it is that same mystery that enamored him—that makes him flustered whenever she makes her presence, that keeps his knees weak at the sight of her. He thought that Bill was right—she had enchanted him like a witch out of a fairy tale, making him follow her every whim with little hesitation. He had grown soft with her entrance, much to his dismay as the supposed right hand man of Dutch, and it was starting to show. Bill noticed it, the way Arthur had grown attached to the woman, and how the bastard was so willing to undermine his authority the second he got the chance.

It could be that it was just his way of excusing himself out of these thoughts; to avoid getting hurt again like he had before.

Even as he dived deep within those foreboding thoughts, she was still there, guiding him to his abode. She steered him to offset the tilting and revolving of his focus, ever gently helping him lie down. He felt her hands sweeping his sweaty forehead as he closed his eyes. Sleep consumed him swiftly. Thoughts of her floated above his head even as she left.

He hoped he would dream about her tonight, letting him live the fantasy he drew for himself, but as usual, there was nothing but a blank canvas.

* * *

 

“How are you feeling, Arthur?” Charles asked.

Arthur could barely make sense of his words. His head throbbed immensely, just piercing his head like an arrow.

“Makes me wanna go and take a trip to the gallows,” he finally replied, holding his forehead to maintain his balance. “Don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”

“Give it a few years. Maybe you’ll end up like Uncle.”

“That bastard don’t have nothin’ on that noggin of his,” he quipped. “That’s why the whiskey can’t get to his head.”

Charles seemed to have taken a liking to his banter. “I suppose so.”

“How come you don’t go around and gettin’ hangovers like the rest of us?”

“I’m not sure.” He leaned by the tree, watching Arthur scramble to his feet. “But I’m grateful for it.”

“And miss out on all the fun? That ain’t so nice.”

“So is the puking,” Charles said. His mention brought about the feeling of bile just tickling Arthur’s throat, causing him to vomit.

“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” Arthur complained, wiping his mouth.

“Why not? It’s funny.”

He groaned, throwing his hands in the air. How he wished he could make him laugh, but it seemed like an impossible task. “I don’t think I like talkin’ ‘bout this stuff in the mornin’.”

“We could talk about something else, then,” Charles mentioned. “How’s Trelawny doing?”

“He’s strange still, but he gets to work like everybody else at least. We robbed this stage coach a couple of days ago, and he put up this pretty convincing act on a rich lookin’ lady. Guards didn’t know what hit ‘em.”

“Guess that’s how high society is really like, huh?”

“Well, Charlotte’s of the same kind too I reckon, but she ain’t as pretentious as that crow.”

“Speaking of which, you never really told me about her.”

“I didn’t?” Arthur said, looking up at the man and sharing the same confusion.

“All I know is you invited her in Arthur,” Charles said. “And, maybe the way she acts around me.”

“Why? What does she do?”

“She tries to talk to me a lot. I don’t know why. Makes me uncomfortable.”

Arthur sent him a slight grin. “Maybe she’s taken a likin’ to you.”

“It doesn’t feel that way. On you, however…”

He waved his hands. “Naw, a woman like that can’t fall for a sour-faced idiot like me…”

“I know you’re not that dense, Arthur. But I’m not surprised you’re still childish as ever.”

“Mind your own business,” Arthur grumbled.

“Sure thing, Arthur,” Charles said, nodding. “You should go see Dutch. I think he’s looking for you.”

He sighed. “Sure. In a bit.”

He took his time to get ready for another job, something he has grown so used to that it was basically second nature to him. Dutch, Dutch, Dutch… It was an often ominous repetition of a name as of late that was starting to wear him thin. After Blackwater, his orders had become increasingly more frequent, at times desperate, that it worried him. He did not like any of this, not one bit. Robbing a train from a rich oil tycoon with a taste for vengeance was one problem they could have avoided all together, especially at a time when they were still running from the law, but to insert themselves into a feud, chasing after treasure that may or may not exist, everything was starting to feel like a mistake—a big and utter mistake that the gang may never recover from. He was going crazy, he felt, but it was not words he was not meant to take seriously.

Seeing Micah sitting in Dutch’s tent infuriated him a bit. As the man of vicarious nature dabbled on words of the bible, he peered inside the tent, finding relief as Dutch was not there to listen to Micah’s nonsense. Arthur watched him go on a tirade, of peace and revelry that only serve to enhance his doubts as to where his loyalty stands. Charlotte’s words of Micah betraying the gang crossed his mind again, but indifference was an easy escape from the troublesome thoughts he speculated in his head.

Pearson seemed rather far too enthusiastic about brokering peace with the O’Driscolls after a simple chance encounter with them where he, unfortunately, did not get shot to make him learn his lesson. Micah, however, was worse. He encouraged that dangerous trail of thought of Pearson’s, and insisted even after Hosea’s qualms of it being an obvious trap. Arthur agreed with Hosea of course, as would any sane individual in this camp who had already met those O’Driscolls face to face and lived to tell the tale. Even as Dutch brought back memories of the past that should long be forgotten, of a certain Annabelle whose charms captured Dutch’s undivided attention, and whose death from the hands of a dear old friend wracked his very soul, Micah’s words got through to him somehow. He was not sure why Dutch was listening to Micah so much, and it scared him.

Arthur was not one to refuse an order from him still, and if there is anyone who should be going through with Dutch’s plan of settling old, violent ties, it would be him, and him alone. His presence was crucial—Van Der Linde’s very own trump card that can decimate any card that Colm O’Driscoll could play. And as hard as it was for him to admit it, it was true, and so he agreed, even as the doubts continued to attack him further as they approached the horses.

He felt them again. Her hand on his. It was a touch he was growing familiar with, but was never going to get used to.

“Please listen to Hosea, Arthur,” Charlotte demanded. Her grip was tighter than when she held his hand while he was drunk out of his mind. It was strong, even in his sobriety.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Balfour,” Dutch said, cutting into the two. “We’re going to be fine. Arthur here will be our lookout. He’ll be the first to shoot if he sees anything suspicious.”

“And who’s going to look out for _him_?” she retorted. Arthur had never seen her like this before, not in front of Dutch.

“I know you have a rather...” he paused,  “—uncanny liking to good old Arthur here. But it’s no reason to get all worked up.”  Dutch answered.

She didn’t seem to mind his words, only diverting her attention to Arthur. “I know you don’t trust me about Micah, Arthur. But please, just this once. Trust me on this. It’s a trap. Hosea knows it, I know it.”

Micah was about to speak about the mention of his name, readying a slur for a woman who was beginning to get on his nerves, but Arthur spoke before him. Dutch watched on with curious eyes, pondering what she was talking about.

“There ain’t nothing to worry ‘bout,” he told her. “Believe in Dutch. If this goes to plan, then we’re gonna bring an end to this pointless conflict once and for all.” 

“You think someone like Colm O’Driscoll can keep his word?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

She glared at him sternly. “If you won’t listen to me or Hosea, then at least listen to yourself. You shouldn’t be doing things you’re not certain of. None of this will work out, I tell you.”

“It will,” he reassured her. “That’s enough out of you for now. We’re goin’.”

It was an answer he will come to regret later on, when he soon witnessed the butt of a rifle smack his head.

\----

Arthur was slipping in and out of consciousness for a while now. After one miserable attempt of escape, the ringing on his head became the least of his worries as the bullet wound around his shoulder burned and throbbed in agony. The second he opened his eyes, catching a glimpse of the surroundings hoping to find an opportunity to escape his predicament, there was only a blur, a deep haze that clouded his vision, perhaps on any hope for a way out. His heart was a rapid beating of drums, and his breathing a short and shallow whistle of a flute. Somehow, even in the torment of his pain, he still manages to think, to feel sorrow, and to feel unspeakable regret.

_She was right… She was goddamn right…_

The next time he returned to his excruciating reality, he found himself tied up, upside down in some cellar. Only the crooked face of Colm O’Driscoll was there to greet him, whose voracious teeth glowed from the dimly lit candle.

The sting of his wound was ever present even in the midst of Colm’s blows against his ribcage. It hurt, it hurt a lot, but he was no stranger to them. Colm was not hesitant to share his plan of luring the rest of the gang to rescue him, where the Pinkertons would wait in ambush. His heart ached; it was more painful than the blows he received, more agonizing than the gaping hole in his shoulder. He couldn’t let him set the law down on them. He had to get out of there fast, but it was getting more difficult to keep his eyes open, to not tremble from a non-existent cold that entangled his senses. He just wanted to rest, to sleep, even with all the little blood he had left rushed to his head, and when the possible fall of the gang was just looming over the horizon. Sleep would take away all this misery, this pain, this torture, if only just for a bit.

Gunfire. Smoke. Screaming.

It jolted him awake. He heard the scrambling of footsteps from the top of the stairs. Coarse voices of men were shouting almost incoherently, followed by wails and cries of pain. Glass shattered above, alongside the cackle of flames. He heard the splatter of blood, cracking bones and cut flesh. The sounds of bodies crumpling to the floor with a thud were like a symphony to his ears.

Soon enough, he finally hears a voice he could recognize.

“Arthur! Where are you?” It was rough and shaky, but there was no mistaking it. Charles.

He coughed to clear his throat. His sudden movement caused him to flinch, as the pain of his shoulder was tantalizing his body. He bit his lip hard, and struggled to speak. “D-down here…” he moaned faintly. He wished it was enough for Charles to hear.

“I hear him!” Another voice erupted. “Here, I think he’s in this cellar!”

_Sadie? What was she doing here?_

He heard the crunch of wood as whoever was outside broke the cellar doors down, and bits and pieces of wood tumbled down the stairs.

“Arthur!” It was a different voice again this time, and upon realizing who it was, his worst fears were realized.

 “E-everyone… We have to get out of ‘ere. They’re… They’re gonna set the law on us…”

Charlotte and Sadie supported him to prevent him from dangling, while Charles cut the rope. Two burly arms managed to catch his legs before they hit the ground, and the two women set him down by a chair.

“What… What did they do to you?” Charlotte asked. There was an evident pain in her voice, a pain that matched whatever he felt there at that time.

“I’m…” he gasped for breath, before continuing, “I’m fine…”

“We have to get you out of here now, Arthur,” Charles said, as he lifted him up with ease.

Arthur caught a glimpse of Sadie who had been mostly quiet all this time, apart from her deep and heavy breaths. She was covered in blood, so much blood that it soaked her dainty yellow shirt.

“Are you… Are you okay Mrs. Adler?” Arthur blurted.

“It’s… It’s not my blood. I’m fine, Arthur. You need to get yerself treated.”

Charlotte was quick, tearing a piece of her skirt and applying pressure onto his wound. He shuddered at the sensation. Any other man would have fainted from this intense pain, but he held strong, knowing it will end soon.

“Where’s… Where’s Dutch? Is he okay…?”

“He’s fine, Arthur,” Charlotte answered.  “Just try not to talk. You need to rest easy now.”

Charles helped guide Arthur up the stairs and into the aftermath of their wrath. Bodies lay on the grass, and on the road, some burned alive, others shot in the head. Out in the corner, he saw Colm, hunched over the side of another shack. It was difficult to recognize his mangled remains riddled with all sorts of stabs and cuts, if not for his crooked face that stood out compared to the other poor O’Driscolls that littered the landscape.

“Colm’s dead… You all managed to kill him…”

Charlotte and Charles glanced at Sadie worriedly.

“Do you think that was a bit too much, Mrs. Adler?” Charles asked her.

“It’s never enough,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“Now’s not the time,” Charlotte pleaded. “Get him to your horse Charles, quickly. I’ll go grab his things and Prastag and then we’ll make a run for it. Sadie, watch if there’s any more of them about.”

“I’m always watchin’,” Sadie replied.

From what was once a normal and undividedly easy routine, climbing on top of a horse has turned into a great challenge. Charles assisted him, lifting him almost effortlessly onto the back of Taima before hopping on his own. Charlotte came back to them with Prastag in tow, and her whistle summoned Willard beside him. She placed his satchel and hung his weapons on her saddlebag and got ready to ride out. Sadie was already on top of her horse by then, a rifle cocked and ready to fire at the first sign of another person in their immediate surroundings.

The inferno that came from his wounds was still enveloping him. He couldn’t keep himself balanced as he was dizzy from all the blood loss, so he could only lean against Charles back to avoid a fall. Charlotte headed their entourage, taking the first few steps outside of the battlefield. Charles followed next with at least one hand occupied by a revolver, and Sadie soon after.

Arthur heaved before speaking. “How did you… How did you find me? All the way out here…?”

“Charlotte here was worried about the whole agreement going sour,” Charles told him. “She asked me to come with her to follow you just in case. We were watching from afar when we saw the O’Driscolls knocking you out. We couldn’t approach, we were afraid they’d kill you if we would. After following your trail for a while, we saw Colm preparing to leave. That’s when we figured something bad was going to happen to you and we had to act fast.”

“And Sadie…?”

“Hard to say,” Charles said, throwing a glance at Sadie’s direction, “she overheard the whole O’Driscoll thing, and then she got real angry and made her way with us to bring her along. We had to hold her back at times while we were following you. I guess she had plenty of fun making mince meat out of Colm.”

“I heard that,” Sadie snarled.

“Well damn… Thankfully… it worked out in the end, huh…” Arthur huffed.

 “I’m glad you’re alright,” Charles remarked, ending their conversation.

The journey back to camp was thankfully not as eventful as they initially expected. Four steeds stormed into camp, and Arthur was only barely hanging on to his last ounce of consciousness. He had lost so much blood that there was another layer added to his queasiness. Mary-Beth and Karen noticed their entrance and immediately leapt into the fray, helping Arthur down who was already struggling to stand and stay awake. Dutch walked towards them nonchalantly, as if nothing serious was happening.

Even when he wanted to rest then and there, Arthur still went on to tell him what happened, and that Colm wanted to set them up. However, there were other things in Dutch’s mind at that moment.

“Mrs. Balfour,” he called. “You know what you’ve done,”

Charlotte didn’t seem to mind his threatening tone. “I did what had to be done.”

“There is a time and place for everything, Mrs. Balfour. You put this whole gang at risk by making a move before I even gave out my word. You could’ve made everything worse.”

“ _I would’ve made everything worse_? Who was the man who tried to broker peace with a savage like Colm anyway? And why didn’t you get a search party up immediately once Arthur went missing?”

Dutch pinched the tip of his nose. “We can’t react to every little thing! Arthur said they were trying to set us up. What if the Pinkertons were there when you tried breaking him out? You would’ve gotten yourself and Charles and Sadie killed or arrested too.”

“Do you even hear yourself? You think Arthur getting kidnapped is such a minor stain in your plans? “

“You don’t _know_ what you’re talking about.” Something within him snapped, and it wasn’t pretty, especially not for Arthur. “I was going to look for him, but sometimes we need to wait before we act. And you did a whole lot of acting, much less thinking.”

She met Arthur’s eyes for a bit, and seeing his slumped and pale form enticed her to approach. She immediately changed her tone.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Van Der Linde. We can discuss this more later. We should get Arthur to his bed so he can rest.”

Even Dutch, as self-absorbed as he was at that very instant, was aware Arthur needed that respite. He nodded and called over Swanson who readied some morphine to wipe away the pain, albeit only for a while. Arthur was only barely awake, with only their voices to guide him as they ambled towards his cot. The drug was already affecting him. He melted into his bed as Miss Grimshaw pulled down the fabrics of his tent. She had asked Charlotte and the Reverend to leave for their privacy, and then she stripped Arthur bare from his long johns stained by his own blood. After treating the gunshot wound properly, she helped him put on some suspenders and trousers to keep him clothed.

“You’ll be okay son,” the camp dragon soothed. “Rest easy now.”

Her presence was a boon to him, especially for his recovery. The reverend and Charlotte came back in, both with equally worried faces. He wanted to tell them he was going to be okay, but his mouth would not move anymore. The darkness soon swallowed him, and for a moment, he thought his end was near.

* * *

 

Arthur woke up with his head still pounding, the raw throbbing still chipping away at his sanity. He shuddered as the air around him tickled his skin, icy winds reminding him of the cold he could not hide from after being so close to death’s door. His eyes darted to the sleeping woman, sitting on a chair and resting against his table, her even locks of black hair stretched and scattered around the wood.

He shifted as he lay on his bed, wondering how bad his current condition was. When the sting of his wound began settling in again, he stifled out a groan, unable to muffle his gurgle in time for Charlotte not to hear. She was stirred from her peaceful slumber, and she swiftly planted a palm on his forehead.

He was half-naked, and he could not hide the flush in his cheeks else the pain might return again. His arm felt numb and heavy from the cloth that was wrapped around it, holding down the bandage stuck against his wound. He shivered when the wind swept by. Charlotte strewed a blanket over him, engulfing him with comfort. Yet, there was no smile to complement it, just a concerned expression that he had begun to dislike.

“What’s wrong? I’m alright.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that… I can’t help but blame myself for what happened to you somehow. I should’ve done everything I could to make you stay that time,” Charlotte lamented.

“It’s been a week or so. I’m gettin’ better already.”

He tried turning over to his side, but doing so brought back some of the pain he was trying to avoid. His first response was to jerk an arm to his injury, something that Charlotte did not enjoy seeing.

He tried to steer the mood away from his frailness. “It ain’t all that bad… I mean, thanks to you, Colm’s now dead, that bastard won’t be botherin’ us no more.”

“Sadie and Charles did most of the work, really.”

“But you’re the one who thought about it in the first place,” Arthur bolstered.

“I would’ve rather had not let you get hurt in the process,” she reiterated.

Arthur shot her a smile, cheering her up. “It’s best we don’t keep talkin’ ‘bout what’s already done. Gimme some good news then, maybe it’ll heal me up better.”

“Well, you are the very first injured person I watched over that didn’t end up getting buried in a grave somewhere,” she jabbed at him.

“Jesus. I don’t think I wanted to hear that.”

She chuckled, and her joy seeped into him like a disease as he smiled back. “You said good news,” she stated.

“Go for somethin’ else then. Like, is Dutch treatin’ you well? You two had a pretty serious argument back there, I was worried it was gonna escalate into somethin’ else.”

“I figured he would,” she answered. “But Hosea was quick to defend my decision once he got back. He actually sent out a search party for you too, but only after Dutch came back without you, he told me.”

“I see… That’s why some of the other folks were not there when we got back, huh.”

She played with his battered fingers, tracing the cuts and bruises from the times he challenged Micah in a game of five finger fillet. He made some mistakes, but he won every time. He was glad that it caught her attention, as it averted her from her worries for a short moment.

“Dutch and Hosea… they’re quite different. They’re of two different philosophies, of thoughts and admirations. But somehow they find themselves sticking together, even in the most arduous of times.”

“They’ve been through a lot o’ trouble,” Arthur explained. “A long time of that is sure to rattle fellers like them to keep each other’s company.”

”How about you, Arthur?” she asked.

“About what?”

“Do you know someone like that? A person you could trust well enough despite your differences?”

He scratched the side of his beard and wondered what angle he should approach to answering. “Everyone here’s a bit different, sure, and I’m also sure everyone here’ll do what’s right when the time comes.”

“Really now?” she asked incredulously.

“I’m sure.”

“You couldn’t even trust Sean with his coach robbery with Mary-Beth, and I know how protective you are with her,” she said with a sly grin.

“Well, that’s a different story. That idiot would’ve probably gotten him and Mary-Beth killed if I wasn’t there.”

 “You didn’t even trust me,” she said, her smile fading from her lips.

Her words stung worse than the residual pain on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry. You were right. Should’ve listened to you and Hosea.”

“It’s okay. I would not have believed me either, if I were in your shoes. Not when there was a golden opportunity at stake.”

“Damn that whole thing anyhow. Always knew that snake Colm would never agree to somethin’ like that. Pearson almost got me killed and Micah, that son of a—”

Just her tip of her fingers on his arm was enough to hush him from an anger he himself purposely built.

“The last thing you want to happen is to get all riled up and reopen your wounds. “

When another heavy sigh left his mouth, Charlotte was able to catch on to his temperament. “I suppose it is boring, being cooped up in your tent all day. Why don’t we go for a walk, get closer to the shore for a nice change of pace?”

She offered to help him stand. There was hesitation on his part, but the allure of finally being able to walk again was too much for him to refuse.

Charlotte scooped him up, letting him finally stand on his two feet since the start of his lengthy healing process. She wrapped his arm around her neck and used her own shoulders to support his weight, as his motor functions had dwindled in the wake of his long bed rest. Since he left his hat over by his cot, there was no way to hide the pink glow from his rugged cheeks under a protective shade. Being this so intimately close to her should have been a delight on his part, but he was completely exposed apart from his suspenders and pants, and in no time at all, his insecurities started to awaken. What did he smell like, after ending up hot and clammy underneath that blanket? A putrid stench of sweat was probably the only scent that came off him. Was the thick hair on his arm irritating her? She must also be disgusted as to how the back of her neck was vilely being grazed by his armpits at each step. The further they went, the more he regretted his decision of accepting her offer.

The aggressive nudge of her hands on his muscled back smothered any attempts of him to make his retreat. For what felt like forever, living under the duress of a queen that knew exactly of his weakness, her tyrannical rule ended when she forced him to take a seat on a fallen log. It was likely a tree that had fallen ages past, now ingrained into the earth as if it was a single entity. For a moment, he wondered about how such a tree that towered others, standing tall and strong, eventually degraded into a solid, jagged seat for lonesome outlaws like him. He would have been this tree, if not for Charlotte’s initiative to rescue him.

Fortunately for him, most of the gang was out of camp, likely involving themselves in other affairs of the two warring families. Still clueless about Charlotte’s intentions, he saw Abigail and Tilly hauling a barrel of water towards them, while Jack was in pursuit with this precious little smile plastered on his face.

“What are ya’ll plannin’…?”

Miss Grimshaw approached after grabbing something off of Strauss’ wagon, and she handed to Charlotte what seemed to be a bar of soap. Jack splashed some of the water, sprinkling Arthur’s face with cold, tiny droplets that made him shiver. “You need a bath Uncle Arthur,” he gleefully remarked.

“The boy’s right,” Abigail chimed in. “You haven’t washed yourself in ages.”

“I can do somethin’ like that on my own.” He moved to cup some water in his hands, but he twitched as he tried to move his arm and moaned painfully.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Miss Grimshaw said. “You ain’t going to like it Arthur, but I’d rather have you clean than you stinking up the whole place, injury or no injury.”

Defeated, he maintained his cranky demeanor in protest of her decision. That didn’t stop Tilly pouring a bucket of water all over his head, soaking him completely and shocking him with a frigid wave of coldness. Charlotte broke two chunks off the soap and handed them over to Abigail and Jack, keeping at least one remaining chunk for herself. “We have a lot of cleaning to do,” she teased as Arthur just further furrowed his brows and bowed his head.

Jack’s laughter echoed around the camp as he looked for the most obvious ticklish parts of Arthur, making him squirm from time to time. “Stop that,” he scolded, but he couldn’t dare to set a heavy and ominous tone against the little kid, and his lightheartedness only encouraged him further. Abigail and Charlotte jointly slid their soapy hands on his arms and his chest, a mischievous grin on their faces as they had done so. It was an almost different feeling from the many times he had taken deluxe baths in the hotels, with the deliberateness and genuineness of the two being the biggest differences. His scrunching eyes and wrinkled nose became the source of ridicule for these two women towards him, and he was having none of it. Abigail finished up and washed her hands in the basin, while Jack eventually got bored once Arthur got used to him tickling his rather sensitive spots.

Charlotte proceeded to polish his back. She managed to hit a sweet spot, on his back at the direct opposite his collar bone, below his shoulders and an inch from his spine. Charlotte noticed his arousal and smiled, working her way to the other side and drawing that same reaction from him once again. He was radiating bliss, every pore and freckle in his body just teeming with delight. He did everything to resist conjuring a smile, and once it was over, he was more exhausted than relaxed than he should have been. Tilly helped wash off the soap with another flood of water. “Look at you Arthur, all clean,” Tilly said. “We should do this more often.”

“This ain’t ever happenin’ again,” he growled. “I’m gonna throw myself into the damn lake before ya’ll make me.”

The women chuckled at his irritation and left, leaving him and Charlotte alone for the meantime. Part of her dress was already drenched with water, but she didn’t mind it at all, sitting beside the dour man as he dried himself.

“Had fun?”

“It was a nightmare.”

“Last I heard, no one could derive pleasure from nightmares,” she mocked. “Has it been a long while since you have gotten yourself washed like that?”

“As I said, it ain’t gonna ever happen again.”

“Then perhaps you will start listening to me so it doesn’t?”

Her eyes became filled with worry again. He hated it. He always felt like her pupils peered into him, into the depths of his own mind and emotions he conscientiously keeps locked up within him.

“Sure, I guess…” He answered after a while.

She licked her lips and averted her gaze. “Look. I… I don’t know how to say this. But…”

“What is it?” he asked, raising a brow.

“In a couple of days, I’m certain you will be taking some jobs for the Grays again.”

“I suppose,” he replied. “But I don’t know where you’re getting’ at.”

“The Grays and the Braithwaites... They aren’t clueless as you all make them out to be. With you participating in both their affairs, and their long history between another, they have been aware of everything this gang’s been doing. I fear that whatever they will do will be the beginning of the end. Of all this. Everyone here is fighting for gold that has already long been gone.”

“How… How do you know this?”

Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t know if I should tell you.”

“You can’t be doin’ this all over again…” Arthur complained.

“I thought you were going to listen to me this time?”

“I am, I am, but…”

“Then just maintain trust on what I say, it is my only request of you. I’m sure Dutch will still be as stubborn as ever and won’t back down from his plans to continue swindling the two families, so I only ask that you stay alert, and keep an eye on Sean.”

“Sean? What’s he got to do with any of this?”

“I’m not certain if I should say it either,” she answered. “But regardless, I want you to trust me.” It was that same look she forged when she held him back before running off for a faulty peace agreement with Colm. He did not want a repeat of what happened. If she knew all of this, then she had a point to make.

“I will.”

She was glad that he was finally listening, and he returned the same sentiment. “And, Arthur…” she paused.

“What is it?”

“Never mind,” she told him. “I’m sure I could handle it by myself.”

Their exchange was stuck in his mind for the time being, even as he eventually recovered from his injuries a few weeks later. After a light conversation with the reverend, thanking him for the morphine that greatly reduced the suffering he had to endure, he found himself going out on a job for the Grays again as Charlotte had predicted.

Charlotte’s words become like a scripture to him. He was not expecting to follow her advice closely, especially with the absurdity of her knowing so much about these two families, but she had been right before, and so she could as well be right again. Soon enough, he finds himself learning she was indeed correct in her assumptions.

Sean’s head would have been blown off if not for his intervention. He had been keeping a close eye on the surroundings for a while, and far too many people were suspiciously situated in places where no one would possibly keep idle in, let alone stay put. With no women in sight, just men with concealed revolvers, there was no doubting it anymore.

Sean was quite thankful for Arthur’s heroism, but quickly mocked the man’s softness for him much to his annoyance. With the last of the Grays in the town wiped out, they left the corpses of Sheriff Leigh Gray and Archibald out in the open as a warning to the townsfolk that they was a gang to not ever be messed with.

Arthur wanted nothing more but to thank Charlotte that instant. They managed to come out of the mess unscathed, along with Sean who would have likely been the first victim since he was the first to get shot at in their group. He got back to camp, unaware of the tense air that had already surrounded it.

“ _Where’s my goddamn son?_ ”

He could recognize Abigail voice even at a fair distance away. His heart sunk as he approached her. She was pacing back and forth beside Dutch’s tent, resting her mouth with her knuckles from time to time. There was no changing her mood, not a chance at all. All he wanted to do was to ask any of them where Jack would have possibly gone, or who, in his worst fears, have taken him.

Hosea ran up to them.

“We found Kieran. It’s…” He went back to look. Charles was carrying him. “It’s not good. Seems like the Braithwaites took Jack.”

Hosea met Arthur’s eyes. Arthur could tell there was bad news that awaited him.

“They’ve… I think they’ve taken Charlotte too.”

Arthur stared back with widened eyes and scoured the camp for her, every fiber of his being wishing that Hosea had thought wrong, that Charlotte simply hasn’t been back on an errand. But there was no more time to deny the truth, to keep it at bay until the reality swept over him.

Everything was plummeting. His dreams, his wishes, and now his trust. Broken like shattered glass and fractured bone, now a true embodiment of a trauma that he had long since kept hidden within him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. I apologize for the really long wait for this chapter, if there are people still following this I guess. I'm fairly preoccupied with some university stuff so it's been getting harder and harder to keep up, but I will still try. I think it's mostly my fault for making such long chapters when I'm more used to ones that are basically half the length of the latest updates. I would also like to apologize for the possible dip in quality in my writing if there is any.
> 
> Nevertheless, I still find this work to be my own little therapeutic session because I honestly still get so sad about Arthur when I think about him. I'm mostly writing this for myself to get closure on his tragic story. Once again, sorry, and thank you for all those who will be sticking to this fic up until its end. I already have the rest of the plot along with the ending in mind, all that's left is to turn it into text. Hope you enjoyed!


	7. Tell no man what was done

“More champagne, Madame?”

She raised the glass in her hand and bowed her head.

“Only the finest for our mistress.” The man gently poured the alcohol into her glass with grace and finesse that rivaled that of hers. The cold licked at her fingertips, at the exact temperature she liked them. She dismissed her servant with a polite nod, thanking his work.

She sipped, letting the rich bitter flavor flow along her tongue, accentuated by the rapport of her guests and the reverberating sounds of the echoing strings in the middle of the room. Her chair was comfy, but the company of her husband beside her even more flattering.  
  
“Haven’t you had enough, my dear?”

The voice was like a rupture through the blaring music. “Pardon…?” She asked, a rumbling in her stomach awakening her senses. She looked at the direction of the voice; a man with a tall black hat, bearing a refined mustache and suit.

“Have I... Have I met you before…?” She asked in lulled tone. Her head was spinning. Her husband seemed to have dissipated in the air beside her, and the light melodies collapsed into a debilitating crescendo.

“Not of this time and place, I believe,” he replied.

She tried standing up, but her legs were numb and stuck in place, and her heart was palpitating with rigor. She clutched at her chest, dropping the contents of the fine glass of champagne all over the carpet and some on her once immaculate dress.

“Who... Who are you?”

An awry smirk crept on his lips. “Just checking in on my assets, Mrs. Balfour, as any accountant should.”

* * *

 

Nostalgia brewed in her wake, coupled with a dire headache that shook her consciousness. The memory of the dream was quick to dissipate from her mind, and it was the fragrance of scented candles that distracted Charlotte’s attention, their floral aroma sweeping her nostrils as she took her first breaths in the unknown. She expected bars on the windows, with mildewed blankets and the pungent smell of rusted iron and dusty rags, but instead she found herself entrapped in a room riddled with lavish amenities.

There was a thick oak wardrobe with ornate carvings, a queen sized bed with golden frames, and royal red carpets emanating a familiar, earthy musk. It was even complete with a charming round table in the middle of the room, the mahogany so brown and smooth to touch. The chairs that complemented the table were her favorite— a dainty pair with evocative cabrioles that perfected the look. Her old room in her house back in Chicago was almost entirely similar, save for differing colors, hers riddled with a vibrant blue and purple instead of the crimson themes that dominated this room’s form. It was not difficult to reminisce her younger days spent sitting in her room in one of those chairs with the thick spine of a book in one hand and a cup of afternoon tea in another.

The first memories Charlotte managed to conjure in her mind were not of a happy sort. It was just Kieran; his arms were cradled on his own body as she was being dragged away with Jack in tow. She could not shield the boy’s eyes in time. The little boy could only bury his face into her shirt, drenching it with his own tears as he watched a young man fall in front of him. She wished Kieran had not tried to fight the Braithwaites off, for when a rifle reared its ugly head onto her and Jack’s direction, Kieran recklessly stood up against them with a measly revolver of his own, despite being so outnumbered. There was no other end to that reckless abandon except him dropping onto the forest floor.

They were so close to the camp, just a few meters away, but her small mistake left them in the state they are in now. She should have lifted Jack with her own two arms and rushed out of there before the Braithwaites arrived, but they were too quick—too quick for even a time traveler to react on. She still latched onto a glimmer of hope that he was still alive, for the loud gunfire ripped through the thick forest and towards camp, and she only managed to get a glimpse of a figure sprinting in the distance, stopping just in front of Kieran before the wagon she was taken in left out of view.

She rubbed her eyes and tried to peer out the tinted windows. There were houses all around them, large mansions of old that mirrored her own neighborhood. These cluster of houses only made her realize one thing—they were in Saint Denis, in the hands of Angelo Bronte.

Angelo Bronte wasn’t just a name she became accustomed with through the old John’s endless tales of old. In the land of the rich, his name echoed throughout most of their circles. Bronte’s thick, raucous accent was reminiscent of certain groups of men she had once feared back in her home town of Chicago.

There, in that tiny room, Charlotte stayed for a couple of hours with hardly anything but the company of luxury. Every few hours one of the maids would deliver a meal to her room, and even when she gathered the courage to speak some words and initiate conversation, it fell on deaf ears. Their master must have specifically ordered them not to talk, one that wouldn’t be so far-fetched in the world of Angelo Bronte. Such simple-minded pettiness is one of the few ways the rich can take advantage of others.

She thought about Arthur much in the many hours she spent there. Even through the omniscient soreness coursing through her body, down to the ever brooding feeling of being a prisoner, her mind dwelled many times at the sound of his coarse voice and his dirty blonde hair. In the laps of her boredom she would imagine Arthur busting through that very door. She would daydream about him lunging at her at their reunion, wrapping his arms around her so she could savor the warmth of his body.

She knew the gang would come for her. Arthur, most especially. He was protective, strong, and ever the more a ruthless and unstoppable force to be reckoned with. He had saved Jack with John before in his previous life, and there would be no sense for him not to do the same in this timeline. Part of her wanted to believe that Arthur would be enraged at the thought of her being kidnapped, but it was a silly fantasy she was more than willing to disregard at anytime.

She twirled and played with the laces of her dress, a type of attire that she once abandoned but found herself wearing once again. Vivid memories of her past life began surmounting the peace she had built up in herself. It was a monotonous phase of her life, for certain, but it was one not without its perks and blessings.

A knock from the door startled her. None of the maids would knock before they enter and bring her food, so this was a new thing to be greeted with.

“Is something the matter?”

There was no answer, just a slow creak from the door that was ordained with ornate carvings. She jumped from her seat and embraced the man before her before he could even speak.

“Dutch,” she called him. “I’m glad to see you.”

The man didn’t return the same sentiment. He gently nudged her from her hug and lifted her chin. His eyes scanned her, and he did not seem to be happy at all. It was a surprise, seeing his concern, especially after their initial encounters with one another that ended in sour notes. She watched him shift his head towards the bruises over her arms and face. There was no way to hide the purple blots across her skin; they were bright and revealing. The pain somewhat threw her off, and the moment Dutch noticed her sudden change in energy, he lead her back to her chair to rest.

Was he always this caring? She still couldn’t imagine him, of all people, abandoning Arthur and John.

“Are you alright, Mrs. Balfour? They didn’t hurt you too much?” he finally blurted.

“I’m fine.”

“You didn’t talk about the gang now, did you?”

She rolled her eyes. “I know the rules, Mr. Van Der Linde. I have not uttered a word, especially not anything that would put the gang in dire straits.”

“Good…” he said, reverting back to his usual, paranoid self. It was fun while it lasted.

“Where’s Jack? Did you see him yet?”

She didn’t realize she recklessly stood up from her seat once again, prompting Dutch to push her back into her chair. “The boy is fine, he’s in another room playing with some toys. They’re not willing to let him go so easily though.  Had to send Arthur and John off on an errand. Shouldn’t be too long.”

“Is… Is Kieran…?

“He’s doing well. Took a big hit, but nothing that Mrs. Grimshaw could not handle.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank god. I… I thought he was…”

“Everyone was surprised at what he did,” he interrupted. “We’ll make a Van Der Linde out of him yet.”

“And how’s the rest holding up? Is Sean alright?”

Dutch raised a brow. “Why are you curious about Sean, of all people you could ask about?”

“Sean came to mind, in particular.”

He held his chin up with a thumb, and watched her rigorously. “He’s fine, he’s fine. Fit as a fiddle as he always is, that lazy bastard. He did mention he almost died if not for Arthur… I suppose this statement is relevant?’

“That’s nice to hear,” she remarked, ignoring the latter portion of his sentence. “So when are we getting out of here, then? I have had enough of this kind of extravagance in this lifetime.”

“Oh? I pictured you would feel right at home here,” he joked. “A woman of your caliber would fit right in.”

“I’d sooner die than be back in the business of this indulgence.”

Dutch tapped her shoulder. “Don’t worry, Arthur and John will be back soon enough. I’m sure he will be quite happy to see you all well, should he choose to overlook those bruises of yours, of course.”

“I’m sure he won’t be happy,” Charlotte mused. “But when isn’t he?”

“I’ll just have to keep him from seeing you until we’re all out. Then he can lash out all he wants. Now, if you excuse me, I have some matters to discuss with Bronte. Just hold out a little longer.”

“Discuss?” she asked incredulously.

Dutch turned to face her again, planting a stare. “Yes, with Bronte.”

“You’re telling me you want to make a deal with a man who just happened to hold a little boy for ransom?”

“I would rather not go at this again, Mrs. Balfour.”

“Go at what?”

“All that doubting,” he said with sudden scorn.

Nostrils flaring from the older man, she backed from her stance to stop from escalating things further. “I understand. I apologize.”

It was the only time they were alone together, and so there were many things on her mind that she wanted to tell him. She desperately wanted to understand his inner machinations, the gears that turn and serve as a throttle to a madness that stemmed his future actions. But it seems his awry personality towards dissent had managed to erect a thick wall that her words may never penetrate.

“Before making presumptuous statements like that, Mrs. Balfour, maybe you should be telling exactly why you’re with us in the first place,” he said, turning away from her. “Especially when even a man such as Angelo Bronte is familiar with you.”

“He… He is?”

“You tell me,” he uttered with a low voice, sending shivers down her spine. He shut the door behind him, and she collapsed back into her chair with a sigh.

The next time the door opened was when the darkness had already swallowed the sky. One of the maids finally spoke to her.

“Mrs. Balfour,” she said, catching her attention. “Mr. Bronte is asking for you downstairs.”

“He asked? How charming,” Charlotte answered with a scoff. “Very well then.”

It was a mistake, to use such a detestable tone. Patience, however, has long since left her.

Walking was difficult, with the pain attacking her legs as she stretched them. The bruises felt like wounds opening up. She had avoided scampering around her room throughout her stay to lessen its toll, but not even rest could get rid of it. The maid assisted her in going downstairs, and she was met by the reverberating tones of familiar voices, elating her spirits.

 “Do not be alarmed when you see her, gentlemen. I’m sure you, Mr. Van Der Linde, were aware of her condition. I would not condone any of that, especially not from the Braithwaites, certainly,” one of the voices said. She knew an Italian accent when she hears one. “You Americans are so keen on using your fists, eh? Even so far as to hurt an innocent woman.”

“I am not surprised by the actions of those inbreds, I assure you,” another voice, Dutch’s voice, replied. “We’re not like any Americans you see. We… Well, we have a code.”

“A code?” the initial voice asked, chortling unnervingly. “You surprise me again, Mr. Van Der Linde.”

“Ahem,” Charlotte said, clearing her throat. She gallantly walked into the room where the men exchanged words. Her eyes surveyed the room swiftly before it landed on Arthur, face stricken with worry and pity as he eyed her form. Her steps were loud against the wooden flooring.

“Aha, Mrs. Balfour. It is finally nice to see you,” Bronte remarked, breaking the silence. “I hope you had a good rest, we only wish what is best for you, eh?”

She paid no mind to the man’s snippets. “Indeed, being held prisoner is the greatest pleasure in life.”

“You’re mistaken, Mrs. Balfour. Isn’t that right Mr. Van Der Linde?”

“Yes…” Dutch answered. “They’ve been feeding you. Gave you a big room with a nice mattress to get a good night’s rest in and get your strength back up.”

“That’s right, yes,” Bronte agreed.  “You grow bored of this fancy life, huh, Mrs. Balfour? I can’t picture a beautiful woman such as you to be joining these, let us say, band of lost American men.”

“I do my utmost to relieve myself of men like you,” she snapped.

“Ah, yes, men like me,” he said, leaning back into the couch. “Men, like your husband.”

She froze in her tracks, and watched Arthur furrow his brows at the mention of the word. The outlaw kept his mouth zipped, even in his curiosity.

“It was quite cruel for you to leave him like that,” Bronte continued, each word starting to get on her nerves. “And for what? These men?”

She took the only action she could make—to stay silent as he bombarded her of truths she wanted to keep secret.

“But do not mind me. I have no interest in meddling with whatever affairs you might be involved in,” the man mocked. He turned to Dutch. “Well, you have fulfilled your end of the bargain, you are free to go. Keep this woman safe, yes? She is the daughter of a dear friend of mine.”

Charlotte started walking away only for her legs to surrender from under her. She dropped down to her knees, clutching the red carpet with her bare hands as she winced from the pain. Arthur stood from his seat abruptly, alerting the guards and holding him at gunpoint. He paid no attention to the barrels pointed directly at him and caught up to Charlotte and helped her up from the ground. With his arms around her, supporting her weight and aiding her stroll, she felt safe once more.

“Arthur… I…”

“It’s not the time for explainin’,” he told her. “We best get out of here.”

She nodded, tightening her grip on his hand.

Jack straddled into the room just a few moments in, making a full sprint towards Charlotte with worry in his little eyes. He tugged at her sleeves. “Aunt Charlotte, are you okay?”

“I’m okay, Jack. Go and give your father a hug.”

“Okay,” he said, letting go of her hand and jumping into the open arms of John.

“See you at the party then, Mr. Van Der Linde. And oh, bring Mrs. Balfour with you, should she have recovered by then. I have a few friends of mine who would be happy to see her.”

Dutch put on his fake smile, the bitterness he kept hidden underneath it. “Sure, Mr. Bronte.”

\----

Charlotte’s focus was starting to slip. The rhythmic galloping was lulling her senses. Sitting behind him once more on top of Prastag, however, amplified its effects. Nothing comforted her more than riding alongside Arthur. It was one thing she missed sorely after acquiring Willard. Yet even being so close, he was distant, and she could not fathom why.

In the midst of Jack’s tales of pasta and alternating slippers, Arthur had been quiet watching the road ahead with vigilance. It could explain that sinking feeling in her chest with how he was so cold at this time, as by now he would have asked how she was, or if she was okay. It was something unnatural, uncharacteristic even. She swallowed. There was no one else to blame but herself.

To Arthur, he may have come across another lie, yet to her it was the truth. Her husband was truly dead. The Cal in this reality was not the Cal she had known, just as Arthur and John weren’t the same two brothers that changed her life forever.  It was silly to her mind, thinking of going back in time again to take back her words. But that was a onetime thing. This was forever.

Dutch shared Arthur’s silent treatment as well, but Charlotte could not determine if it was out of disgust by the filth he had to endure from Bronte’s antics or the revelation that she, or rather, her father had something to do with him. Although she had never told the gratuitous leader of the Van Der Linde Gang of her real husband’s true fate, what drove her to leave him in this reality must have lingered inside his head, ever doubting the intentions Charlotte had for this group. If he would attempt to ask, there was no other way for her but to mask it.

It was getting so difficult, tracking all of the lies and the stories she had told. They were now a maelstrom of twists and turns, ever growing and branching out segments like a tree. The weight of the world was already there upon her, and soon enough these branches would not be able to carry the burden she had amassed. The truth may just spill out, sooner or later, and it is to her hope that she would have freed Arthur and his gang from that tragedy by then.

A zealous smile greeted them upon arrival. Abigail would have leapt for joy there and then, seeing her little boy once again, but the sight of Charlotte’s weary form discouraged her.

“Charlotte, you’re hurt,” she said, helping the injured woman down from the horse with the help of Arthur.

“ Just some mild injuries, nothing too serious,” she reassured her.

Arthur gently helped the tired woman from the steed, her rigorous hands now a tender hold. “I don’t think Mrs. Balfour here would even remotely get a good rest in her little cot, so I’ll just let her borrow my bed.”

“Oh yes, that’s a good idea. Come on, we’ll celebrate later. I’ll help you get her up the stairs.”

There were some slight groans involved as they entered the peculiar mansion. Arthur couldn’t seem to take Charlotte’s pain any longer, and lifted her off her feet. “This will be quicker,” he said, ignoring the woman’s flushed cheeks. His eyes for someone who would have been embarrassed by this situation were unnervingly cold, however.

Arthur laid her down on the bed. The pillow was musky and the air outside was frigid, but his hand sweeping across her forehead made everything warm and cozy.

Abigail barged in and shot her a smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Balfour. You’ve done so much for Jack, and I-“

“I didn’t do anything to deserve such praise,” Charlotte clarified. “I got caught along with him.”

Abigail crept close to her, and lay a palm on her hand. “Maybe you did, but it was nice to know he wasn’t alone because you were there for him. I’ll see you later after you’re all rested up. Get a good night’s rest, y’ hear?”

“Sure.”

 Abigail hurriedly left, eager to embrace her child once again. Arthur scanned her slumped figure. “You get some rest now. I’ll go get Miss Grimshaw to see you get attended to-“

“Wait,” Charlotte called. He turned around, brows still curled and mouth pursed. “Stay here for a little longer,” she pleaded.

He breathed a deep sigh, his coldness slowly replaced by a fleeting concern.

“As you wish,” he said, almost like in a mocking tone.

He always tried to avoid it. Confrontation doesn’t seem to be his strong suit, but it was always his final option. Charlotte knew she had to break him out of his own trance.

“About… About my husband Arthur. He’s…”

“Dead? Alive? How many husbands you have exactly?” he chided.

She paused, taking his words in. “What have I… What have I gotten myself into?” she joked, letting out a hearty laugh after.

Arthur stayed quiet, now dripping with curiosity.

“It seems like no amount of explanation would ever convince you,” she told him.

Arthur leaned on the wall, crossing his arms. “You don’t need to talk ‘bout things if you don’t have to,” he said. “There are things about you I don’t understand, and it confuses me. A lot. But we all have our secrets. I ain’t one to pry.”

A shadow behind him startled the grown man, when bony fingers reached out on his shoulders.

“Hey there, Arthur,” the voice greeted. “And Mrs. Balfour!”

Charlotte nearly jumped from the bed, save for the striking pain that forced her back down. “Kieran!”

“Nice to see you again, my lady,” the jittery man called.

“ You okay?”

“It ain’t much, just a bullet that didn’t hit nowhere fancy. You don’t seem to be looking hot there are ya?”

She chuckled. “I would take a beating any day over a gunshot.”

The boy tipped his hat. “That you would. I’m sorry I couldn’t do much when you two were taken.”

She shrugged. “You did your best and that’s all that matters.”

“I just figured I should do somethin’ around the camp, is all. With Colm dead n’ all, I ain’t got much to be worried about now, ‘sept for the rest of this gang.”

“You did well out there kid,” Arthur joined in. “Just be sure to start shootin’ first the next time if you feel something’s up. Don’t want to be buryin’ you the next time it happens.”

“Sure thing, Arthur,” Kieran said, rolling his eyes.

The rest of the people began pouring in, greeting Charlotte. She didn’t exactly think she would be missed, but it was a welcome gesture for her. First to arrive was Sean whom she was glad to see alive and well, then Charles, Javier and Bill took a short moment to see her back. Hosea took the time to visit her as well, alongside Lenny who sheepishly welcomed her back. The other girls were eager to see her too, and Karen jokingly thought they were going to be worked to death while Charlotte was away.

Arthur stayed by her side the remainder of the time. When the delectable sounds of guitar strings and humming filled the solemn space, Charlotte urged him to join them. He nodded curtly in reply, wordless and aloof. The room itself bore a familiar scent that lulled her to sleep in just a moment’s time.

* * *

 

“Is somethin’ up with you and Arthur?”

Charlotte paused, letting her hands soak in the basin a bit longer than she anticipated.

“Why do you say that, Hosea?”

He scratched the side of his wrinkled forehead. “Call it a hunch.”

She breathed a deep sigh. She splashed her hands on the basin and wiped the water off her hands with her skirt. She swiped at the freshly cleaned clothes and hung them up on a wire above her. She turned and looked at her surroundings. There was no lake to greet her anymore. Just the old ruins of a home that was better off burned down and the growls of gators sending shivers down her spine. There were no places to sit and relax and take in the nature, not unless it’s laden with the fear of snapping maws of all kinds of wildlife that plagued this place.

Perhaps she would have felt more at home if Arthur spoke to her as often as he did before, but he was rather distant lately. It was no surprise to see Hosea be the only one to notice, out of everyone.

“Do you have any secrets you try to hide from people?” she asked.

Hosea watched her intently, not batting an eye. “We all have our secrets,” he answered. “Arthur has a lot of secrets as well.”

“I see.”

The older gentleman crossed his arms. “Aren’t you curious what they are?”

“Arthur’s business is his business. It certainly is not mine to know.”

He laughed. “Boy’s rubbing off on you already.” He cleared his throat. “Of all my years with these fools, if there’s one thing this gang does best, it’s makin’ people open up. We all may have come from different walks of life, but when it comes to stories they’re all fair game. Somethin’ ‘bout being with this ragtag bunch of fools just gets ya, I suppose.”

“Telling stories are not exactly my forte, Mr. Matthews, in contrast to writing them.”

“But I reckon you told some to Arthur nevertheless. He’s just as lost as you seem to be.”

She glared at the man, his ridicule hitting a nerve. “I am not lost.”

“Oh, you are,” he corrected her. “Everyone is. Just when you think you know you have it under control, it’s gonna get ya one way or another. Not everything is smooth sailin’, not especially with this group.”

“I’m certain that ferry job has something to do with it, then.”

“That nonsense?” he said, straightening his form. “We’ve been on the edge way longer than that. An old timer like me can notice that pretty easily.”

“Your hunch.”

“Yes, my hunch,” Hosea said, darting his eyes away from her and into the ground. “I keep promisin’ these fellers that we’re finally headin’ out somewhere. Getting out of all the mess Dutch and I’ve been makin’.”He coughed hoarsely, alerting the woman. “But I’m old, and I don’t think I got much time left anyhow. I’ve been tryin’ my best, but it ain’t good enough.”

“Maybe you can start by not doing the things you’re all trying to get out of,” Charlotte commented.

“You have a point, but you’d be surprised that it can get us somewhere, one way or another. It’s the only thing we know and the only thing we can do.”

“Even if it means…”

“Means what?”

She sighed. “Nothing.”

The rays of the sun peered through the holes of the thick underbrush. Dark clouds were beginning to emerge from the east, entwining in the billowing smokes of Saint Denis as darkness consumed the rest of the water. She had realized what had been bugging her for a while, clawing at her throat and chest with hostility.

Another end of a day. Another sunset. A day closer to judgment day.

“Arthur had a son, you know,” Hosea mused.

Charlotte snapped her head towards him. “A son?”

“Had a son,” he reiterated. “I didn’t want to tell no one ‘bout this, but since the both of you ain’t budgin’, maybe it’ll bring some light into things.”

Charlotte almost wanted to go back to her the house and check on the journal, to see if she had swept over such an important and vicarious detail. But it occurred to her that she would have never missed such a thing, not at all, when she spent many days viewing every nook and cranny of that book.

“Arthur… He told you about this—this son?”

“He sure did,” he said. “But it ain’t the pretty kind of news, for sure. He wanted to keep it on the down low, Dutch wouldn’t have liked it, not at all, but the man’s gotta share it to someone. I was unfortunately the only feller who he happened to let know.”

“What… What happened to him? The son, I mean.”

“Killed along with his mother, from some robbery if I remember. Arthur changed a whole lot when it did. Stopped talkin’ much. Spent a lot of time just keepin’ to himself and followin’ Dutch’s orders.”

The revelation hit her harder than she anticipated. Her mind wandered back to the past, even if she did not want to.

“We all have our ways to cope with the grief,” she said, painfully remembering a bitter memory of her husband.

Hosea shook his head. “Some people snap out of it soon enough, but Arthur never did. The boy can’t let go of things as easily as that.”

“I don’t know why any of that matters here. Why are you telling me this?”

“I’m just doin’ the dirty work for him, because that darn fool won’t ever tell ya. Maybe then you can tell him exactly why you came here and really start changin’ things ‘round these parts.”

She stood firm with balled fists. “It’s just… He won’t understand.”

Hosea tapped her shoulder. “Then I suppose you don’t know that boy much yet than I initially thought. He may not know a lot of things but he’s quick to understand when it matters. And I ain’t talkin’ bout the whole deal with you knowing so much about him, no. I’m talkin’ ‘bout the part where you seem to be keen on gettin’ him out of this godforsaken situation we’re all in.”

“Did that come from your hunch again?” Charlotte said, breaking a chuckle through the sinking feeling in her chest.

“Yeah, my hunch,” he affirmed. “Maybe if you didn’t make it too damn obvious then call it intuition.”

A bittersweet laugh was all she could muster.

“Thank you, Hosea,”

It still boggled her that Arthur had something to hide even from his journal. It was a lasting, important detail that seemed all but forgotten, only to manifest within the man so boldly that it changed every fiber of his being. It was the only thing that her mind went to as she continued her chores after leaving Hosea’s company for the time being. Their conversation reminded her of the grim detail that the man’s days were coming to a close. There was no time to dilly dally, not now, when the end is near.

Once she was done with her work of folding the clothes and tucking them away, she poured it into her heart to finally talk to Arthur and tell him who she was, and why she’s here. But it was already too late in the night and Arthur was already likely asleep. She thought about catching him in the morning was the perfect time to do so. Even though she had no clue as to how Arthur would react, she was left with no other choice but to take this leap of faith and tell him everything.

She was almost unable to resist taking a peek into the old journal again. She had gotten to know everything about Arthur from that book alone, like a window to his soul. Perhaps he had left messages within the lines of his writing, disguised to keep away from prying eyes and curious women like her. Or maybe, just maybe, he just wants to forget that awful memory.

She opened the door into the house and looked for her bag in the room she shared with the other girls, eager to catch the sensation of the journal’s leather skin on her fingers. The other girls were already asleep, but one head peeked from its resting space, startling Charlotte.

“Is that you, Charlotte?” Mary-Beth asked.

 “Mary-Beth, oh my. I thought you were already asleep.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I just noticed you were headin’ in, and I just wanted to tell you that Arthur already got back that book you borrowed.”

Her heart plummeted.

“A book?”

Mary-Beth did not like the blank stare. “Uhm… Sometime earlier Arthur was here rummaging about, and when I asked him what he was looking for, he told me you were borrowing it—“

“Where did he go?” she uttered frantically.

“I-I think by the scout campfire. Is there something the matter? Should I have stopped him?”

Charlotte stormed out of the room as fast as she could, unable to answer back to the younger woman’s inquiries. The calls of her name faded as she paced through the muddied ground. She passed through the ruined fountain and the worn gazebo, and it almost felt like the world around her was rusting and deteriorating like the formations before her.

The dim light emanating from a small campfire was brighter than usual, like a lit lantern at night’s core. The embers frolicked alongside the smoke, and the horses were drawn to its lure, like moth to the flame. But not all eyes were distracted by the warmth and bellows of the firewood.

Arthur was sitting there, eyes shielded under his hat. His mouth was a straight line, and his posture one that that was unusually unfazed. There was no mistaking the frayed leather of the book he was holding, with all its tiny scratches and marks that she can recall in vivid detail. For something particularly quiet and so profoundly soft, the closing of the journal was like a crack of looming thunder in her ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Oh boy, I guess it's been a couple of months since this was last updated. Yeah, so in case anyone might ask, this fic is still alive. With a lot of real life responsibilities, I have to do this really slowly, so I'm sorry for those who are looking forward to a consistent, straight flow of reading. Nevertheless, I still have this fic mapped out to the very end so all that's left for me is to put everything into words. I still stand by the notion that I'm writing this piece for myself, and I wish to accomplish its completion. Hope you guys enjoy it despite these circumstances. Thank you once again for the comments and the kudos, it feels nice to find people enjoying it even though I update it so irregularly.


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